The Archer's Apprentice

No, I cannot talk to her about how I feel about her or how inadequate and juvénile I feel about my feelings towards her.

"A lot of people died today, Lady Elinor—"

"Robin," she interjects softly, her hand resting on my arm, "please call me Elinor, you have earned that right after all we have been through, please."

"Elinor, for some of the others involved in today's battle, their lives will never be the same. Why couldn't the King have just arrested Wellock and used the court to decide the fate of the prime plotters, or even resorted to torture, perhaps. Then the rest of us needn't have been involved or endangered."

"Life isn't as simple as that."

"No? If you'd arrested Wellock on the first day, you'd have found the evidence involving the bishop and King Louis, with his bookkeeper, with no one else risking their lives."

"That is a simplified notion, all those things could have gone wrong and we would have shot all our spears in one corner, and we might have been wrong."

"I don't like being messed about with like I have these last few days, Elinor. I'm not sure if I will ever trust Rebecca again. I used to like her once and now I'm not sure if I still do."

"You just need time. I'm sure it's all been very confusing, I was worried a few times myself if any of us would get out of this adventure intact."

"So what happens next, is it back to Stewkley for you and your mother?"

"Oh, no, Gervaise and I need to check out the Breton estate, it's been neglected for years, as Rebecca said. It is time we took a welcome rest from spying."

"You and Gervaise?"

"Of course, Gervaise is my husband after all, and has been ever since I was twelve..."

35.

Smooth Field

(Robin of Oaklea narrates three years later, at Michaelmas Fayre, London Fields, 29 September, in the Year of Our Lord 1125)

I stiffen as the black cloaked Friar passes me. Although I have never met this particular monk, it appears he knows me, or knows enough of who I am to recognise me. Our eyes meet briefly, and he looks down. My eyes follow his. He flashes the palm of his left hand to me briefly. It is painted in red ochre. It is a sign, and not one I was expecting.

He moves on without a backward glance to me, and without a single break in his stride. Soon he is lost in the crowd, assembling eagerly to witness the archery event on what the locals hereabout London Town call the Smooth Field.

I make no sudden movements, but continue to stand where I had been waiting for time to pass. No one observing me must know I have received a message. Slowly, I fade into the shadow of the London Wall behind me, forsaking the noonday sun which has been warming me.

There, from the dark shadows I look around, but see no-one who is obviously observing me. I strap both my quivers to my waist, pick up my bag and my longbow, and stride out into the sunshine, heading away from the newly-built walls of the St Bartholomew's Priory next to the London Wall near Aldersgate. Within moments I am into the Smooth Field, joining the mass of unwashed humanity heading onto the grassland, where the final rounds of the richest archery tournament in the realm, the highlight of the week long Michaelmas Fayre, was to be held.

I wonder why I was warned, why I am under some observation, and by whom, as I walk.

I am nobody in these parts, of course, a humble archer from the distant West Midlands. One who talks with an accent that London folk find as strange and amusing, no doubt, as I find their's be. If I am to be robbed, it will not be now. Presently, I have few coins to rattle in my purse and am relying on my winnings at the tournament to pay the tariff that I have on credit with the landlord of The Goat Inn in Long Lane, where I have stayed in a small single room and supped the last three days. The landlord had accepted me with a nod on seeing the scrap of script with the red hand I had been given days before. He had then escorted me without a word to the quiet empty room I have enjoyed, even though the inn was otherwise heaving with overcrowded guests attracted by the last great Fayre of the year.

I regularly encounter Rebecca's red hand and black cowled Friars. They have insinuated themselves into my travels ever since I resumed touring the tourneys last year, after completing my bowmaker apprenticeship with my father.

The first one I saw was Brother Cleric Michael, the huge red-haired friar. He joined me on the road after I won my first tournament on my own. With him I exchanged most of my fat prize purse for a scrip of parchment. I knew him, a former brother in arms. I trusted him with my life, so why not my coin when he advised that I do so? I remember him saying that it was was unwise for a lone man to be upon the road with so heavy a pocket, and I said the same back to him.

"And what makes you think I am alone, Master Robin?" the brother had replied with a twinkle in his eye.

And it is true, monasteries and convents abound, whether they be in city, town and countryside, with well-trod trade routes betwixt. And you never see a poor monastery nor a skinny monk.

But how odd, though, this strange marriage of the cross, the rosary and the red hand symbol of the Jewish banker? A harmony desired perhaps in the Heaven of the same God they worship, no doubt, but vigorously denied within our earthly shires and from church pulpits.

From time to time a Friar, known or unknown to me, maybe even a Sister, will, in exchange for a portion of my purse, hand me a sealed parchment from Rebecca, informing me of some value of my investments. As at Lincoln the week before last, word came that I now owned a virgate of land in Sherbourne, Dorsetshire, sited betwixt priory and the manor which will become more valuable as desired for future expansion by both. Also, a scrip shewed I possess two oxgangs in the outer environs of the City of York, fresh planted with beans and oats by my tenant and set for a fair return in rent and tythes.

Such things are not important to me, though. It is a long season away and I am eager for pleasant family company. I wish to be home in Oaklea before Lucifer's Day dawns. I hope these present attentions do naught to delay me in my intentions and keep me from the half-siblings I miss so much.

This tournament is the biggest I have partaken in. Usually, but a dozen or so archers joinder for town and village fayres. But here, in the shadow of the City of London, so close that applause echoes off its very walls, there must have been a thousand and more who set their darts aflying at the targets three days since.

In the early rounds I was pitted against eleven other archers all at the same time. Twelve of us aline, firing off a dozen arrows apiece. Only one of the twelve, that singleton with the least misses, through to the next round. Then eight archers, again all firing side by side; then six; and yestermorn we were in lines of four, when centre bulls were far more common than outers for the victors.

Today, the final day, we are down to the last eight archers, each of us never bested by those matched with in the prior two days. Now we are to be paired off, one 'gainst t'other, loosening twelve shafts apiece to decide the best. And only the victor proceeds to the final four, before the final pair betwixt them settle who wins the fattest purse. At least I'll have a purse of sorts, all the last eight win something, but whether 'tis enough to satisfy the landlord of The Goat Inn, be another matter.

The embroidered ribbon tied around my left wrist signifies my status as a competitor and the Tower Guards, employed to keep order, let me through to the field. I am early. My father always advises waiting until called, preferably out of sight of other archers. That had been my original intention, but the unknown Friar disturbed my concentration and caused me make my move too soon.

The Archery Field Sergeant nods to me in recognition as I put down my bag. He waves me to approach the mark. We wait, but only for a minute or two at most before my opponent appears next to me on my left.

He is shorter than me by a palm of my hand at least, and a lot slighter of build. I glance at him briefly, his head almost completely covered by a huge floppy beret of Flemish design, though my eyes be irresistibly drawn to a large boil on his nose, red and angry looking.

Boils are common, I hear, particularly in the larger cities, where fresh water to wash in is harder to come by, or too expensive for some. I gladly look away.

Instead, I concentrate on our respective targets, one the left for my opponent and mine on the right. I check on the wind about me and any obvious deviation down the field, indicated by flags and bunting. It is a lovely still late September day and all look forward to the sport.

"To the mark, young sirs," the sergeant calls, although we are both only a few inches from where we need to be. Almost as one, we dequiver and notch our arrows and draw the bowstring back to our chins and we let fly our darts, both at the same time. Even the distance we are away from the targets, the sudden hush of the watching crowd enables us to hear the targets struck and see the Target Marshall wave a gold flag in each hand, registering our success.

We draw again, knowing from previous form that we fire three arrows before the Field Sergeant updates the crowd with the scores.

Before we can even release our charged bows, though, a contingent of City of London Men-at-Arms, in their long white tabards marked with a blood-red upturned dagger proud on the right breast, march through the assembled throng to halt immediately in front of us. Despite the heat of the noonday, a pair of fur cloaked Aldermen, bearing their maces of office over their shoulders, stand at their head.

"These proceedings are called to a halt!" cries the fattest one of the pair.

"What's this interruption for?" bellows the Field Sergeant, coming up to my shoulder, "We are outside the City Walls and thereby beyond the jurisdiction of your City of London part-timers."

"We are here to arrest this archer," the fattest Alderman continues, shouting "in the name of the King!"

"Huh!" the Field Sergeant scoffs, "since when doth thee City Aldermen ever have a kind word for any King?"

"Well," the Alderman says snootily, "ever since when the King's own kith and kin turn agin him and incurs his displeasure, and that affects us all ... & he offers a fine reward for her capture, that's when!"

"Huh!" the Field Sergeant snaps, "there be no 'lady' here, just these two fine young gentlemen, who be among the finest archers in all the land."

Now the thinner of the two Aldermen takes a couple of steps forward and pulls the large Flemish hat from my opponent's head. Rich dark chestnut hair falls about the archer's ears and tumbles over the shoulders.

"You should see your face, Robin," the girl says, looking me full in the eye, a grin on her full lips, She plucks the 'boil' from her nose with her right hand. "I am really quite hurt, you not recognising me after we were once so close. Have you not missed me terribly?"

"Well, Lady Elinor," I reply, "you did have me fooled with that angry red spot upon your nose."

"It's half a hazelnut shell, painted red and stuck on with sticky birch sap. A trick I learned from your father," she laughs, "but, what I really want to know is, have you missed me?"

"I have barely thought of you from then 'til now," I lie, "so why are we meeting now? You not here by coincidence I guess?"

"Oh, Robin, you know with me that nothing ever happens by coincidence," as she smiles that smile. The same one I see every night when I sleep and every morning when I awake and realise she was never there.

"I always assume as much."

"Hurumph!" the Alderman interjects, taking our attention from each other, back to his fat red face, "we are not here for idle chitchat, but to arrest the Countess here for High Treason."

I turn to Lady Elinor, "High Treason, my Lady?"

She nods, "We had a falling out. You know, parents and their children, I'm sure it happens all the time ..." and noticing my raised eyebrows, added, "except in your family, naturally."

I grin, "Naturally."

"Quiet you two," the Alderman insists, "You are both under arrest."

"Why me?" I ask indignantly, "I have never even been to London before."

"You clearly know the Countess well, and that is enough for me to know you are in league with her in the plot, you young cur. Now, guards, seize them both!"

"Hold on Alderman," the Lady intercedes, "we are outside the City walls, besides, we archers are here under the protection of the Tower Guards, are we not, Field Sergeant?"

"Aye, my Lady, you be in my charge, all right," the Field Sergeant booms, stepping between us and the Aldermen and Men-at-Arms, puffing out his chest, covered with the King's Arms of gules two lions passant guardant.

"I have you both in the line of fire," the fat Alderman splutters, waving his arm in an arc, indicating two pairs of archers perched upon the City Wall, "if you do not surrender to me and the City of London, then we will shoot ye down where ye stand, just like dogs."

The Walls are fully 350 feet away, a challenging shot for any archer, but with the two pairs of archers about twenty feet apart, they have a clean shot on us, either side of the Field Sergeant.

"I'll take the two on the left," Lady Elinor says calmly, already aiming and loosening her loaded arrow towards one of the men on the wall.

Gripping my fully drawn and tensioned arrow with my thumb, pinching it against my forefinger joint, I use my right hand to draw a second arrow from my quiver. I raise my arrow point towards the Wall as I nock the fresh arrow, keeping the two arrow shafts apart with my right middle finger and resting the sharp end against my now up-curving left thumb.

I swing the bow slightly tilted, and release the two arrows just before Lady Elinor launches her second arrow from the bow.

She steps smoothly aside, as do I, to avoid the arrows discharged towards us, which harmlessly strike the ground five or six feet behind us; one arrow in the Lady's case, two in mine.

The first archer, already struck in the chest, had discharged his arrow loosely, aimlessly, over the heads of the crowd over on the right of the field, before he topples backwards off the Wall.

On my side, the two archers are simultaneously struck in the chest and disappear from view, before they could recharge their bows. The final archer is struck in the throat as he tries to duck, far too late to avoid the Lady's telling dart.

"Nice shooting, Robin," the Lady says as she draws another arrow to match mine, which is already drawn and pointing at the thinner of the two spluttering Alderman.

They are only now turning from witnessing their former military advantage crumble to naught, to face us again.

"A trick that I learned from my father," I grin.

"No arrests today, Aldermen," Lady Elinor firmly challenges them, "my friend and I could hardly miss the pair of you at this range ... and a fully drawn longbow from here would deliver a thirty-three inch arrow able to punch through a quarter inch iron armour plate at two hundred yards. From here, through your furs and the jerkins of your Men-at-Arms, this arrow head would punch through three of you before it was fully sated of human blood!"

The guards behind started to shuffle to the side, away from behind their leaders.

Four cowled monks ride their black horses up to us, two of them pulling a spare saddled horse each. One of them, I note, carries my clothes bag and spare quiver of arrows from my room at the Inn. Clearly, I have been cleared from the inn and have no choice but to follow my Lady's lead or resign myself to imprisonment at the City's pleasure.

More Tower guards appear to surround the Aldermen's City Men-at-Arms, leaving us free to leave the Smooth Field.

We mount and ride off two abreast, two monks ahead, two behind, the crowd around us part to let us through.

"Where is the Count? I am sure this is a spectacle he would not wish to miss."

"Alas, Robin, the Count is held for ransom, and for far more than gold. As is Rebecca, where even a king's ransom may not save her. My father the King refuses us aid. His hands are tied he swears. So I turn to the one young man I have known who is chivalrous and true. Surely, Robin, you of all men will once more help a Lady in distress?"

The End of the second tale of the Archers. To be continued.