The Archer's Apprentice

When the poor maid Beth, who is not as bright as most, which is why I keep her as part of my household, explains to me what little she knows, the talk of pestilence and plague sets me eager to find out who this messenger is and what his news thus means to us all.

The Inn, when I reach it, is all aflutter with the news from the Castle. The messenger puts down the flagon of ale, that some villager with Bartown relatives has bought him in exchange for the news, and hurries to meet me in the doorway. He is not much older than our Robin, still three summers short of becoming a fully-growed man.

"Lady Alwen, the news from the Castle is that there be plague in the town and people dying—"

"And you carry the plague here to us?" I recoil in horror, "what are you thinking, boy? And where is Sir William?"

"I have no plague, my Lady, I would darest not come near thee if I did, nor be sent, I wager. I were part of Sergeant Robert Edgeware's troop, just returned from patrolling the north-west borders. There be no plague up there nor no sign betwixt town and here. But Lord William's clerk, Jack Moore at the Castle, wouldn't let us pass through the gates there, mind, but he bid us depart a distance and guard the approaches. Me, he sent post haste, bringing messages to ye here, while another hath gone to seek out and fetch back Sir William to the Castle."

"When do you need to return to the Castle?" I ask.

"Jack Moore wants me to stay here, if you will permit it, Ma'am, to take any message back to the Castle if you need anything here."

"You talk of deaths?"

"Aye, Ma'am, there were talk on it at the gate, several older folk and some children, five old and two young, I think, or mebee the other way about. Sorry, ma'am, but different guards had different contrary figures. Many are them that be afflicted and brought close to death's portal, but the stronger amongst 'em hold on. The Castle be sealed up with most of the sick within, and none may pass through the gate either in or out."

I soon ascertain that he knows nothing of the nature of the illness what ails the town, only that it is shut up fast to prevent ingress and egress, lest the bad odours spread about the realm. I instruct Stephen, the inn steward, to see that the lad is comfortably billeted and fed, but warned not to drink excess ale, 'case he be needed to ride at short notice. His horse has already been stabled, while I was making my own slow waddling way down from the Hall.

Every time I am reminded of Will, I think about my long years without any physical relationship with my absent husband. I feel it particularly now when we are apart for any length of time, and I recall how through those long empty years I had dreamed of reunion. My thoughts always pass swiftly over the confrontation with my father, when he retuned from the French wars. I try to forget the unforgettable, the beatings that led to the death of my mother and that of my darling baby Alice.

My thoughts dwell longer, though, on my raising of dear Robin, my brother and my son by marriage. How proud I am of him and how he has matured into a fine young lad, that has the makings of as fine a man as my husband be.

Then I am minded again of Will, how, even from a distance he had heard tell of our single collapsing well, and the virtual abandonment of the estate by the former Lord of the Manor. He had helped my mother and me that first time, with no further responsibility towards us called for, no obligations made or, I thought, given. But still he regarded us and through that regard became the means of our salvation, paying for the construction of fresh wells, not just the one to replace that lost, but several wells, as insurance against future losses. But the wells so well built they will outlive our children's children. The help offered, unasked and unacknowledged, partly brought my father round from his insanity for a while, and has been the source of our present happy prosperity.

It is a struggle to climb the hill to the church, but I need urgent counsel with Father Andrew. He is the oldest and wisest of all of my acquaintance. Although he has been the Priest here since before I was born, he has had a long life before that, mostly outside of the priesthood, and thus seen much more of the world than anyone I know.

Father Andrew listens carefully to my concerns for Will. We both know that my man will risk his life to save each and every one of those who the King has charged him to care for, which is every man Jack in this county of Bartonshire. We know that he would put the least of them first before hisself.

Father Andrew has seen and survived many plagues, in much hotter places than here, where plagues are as common as flies on fresh dung. Cleanliness in all things, he says, washing bodies and clothes and all hard surfaces in well-rotted and boiled lye, concentrated so thick that its odours make you gag; that is one important safeguard against plague, he preaches. Plenty of fresh clean water that has been broiled, or strong fresh ale, helps wash out the sickness and prevents relapses. Quiet rest, in clean bed linen, he insists, is another essential to allow the tortured body recovery. All these measures stand by one another like ranks of pikemen, any one of these missing and the battle and all else is lost, he says.

The Priest leans forward and takes both my hands in his. He declares what kind of man William the Archer is, what he was once, even without the sword touch of knighthood and the recent furs of peerage. He was and is a man set apart from the mere run of humanity by the strength of his honour. I know this is true.

The Father further assures me that Henry Small, currently accompanying Will, Robin and Hugh on their present expedition, told him almost a year ago that, on a fateful day fifteen years or more earlier, of a Royal battle where he first served with the then Captain of Bowmen, Will Archer. Henry Small had declared that, as the Norman Knights left the field in utter rout against the Burgundians, only Will's longbow section stood firm, firing volley after volley into the advancing Burgundian knights until the knights lost heart and turned away from the field, beaten on the very threshold of their certain victory. Will saved the Norman King, his knights and the dukedom of Normandy singlehanded that day.

"When Will returns to the Castle," Father Andrew concludes, "he knows what he needs to do and he, more than any mortal man I know, will pull Bartown through, just like he did with the very Dukedom of Normandy itself."

4.

Obligation

(Robin Oaklea, son of Will Archer, narrates)

I really cannot believe what is happening! How is this possible?

I had believed I'd rescued a defenceless damsel, who was being attacked by a man twice her age, in front of his servants on a public road.

Now she was so incensed by my efforts that she has slapped me! And she slapped me quite hard!

How was I to know that she is a married woman?

Henry, my father's trusted guard, and Hugh, my best friend that I have known all my life, are still gathering up our arrows. These we loosed deliberately a little off target against the Madam's knightly husband, his coachman and a brace of men at arms. Except, of course, for the arrow I fired into both the fleshy buttocks of her beau; that shot the source of the Dame's ire.

That dart, also, I have no doubt lost forever.

My friends take their time collecting up the shafts, while staying well within earshot. They bear witness to my embarrassment in conversation with the Lady, now that the incident has turned from one of the triumph of good over evil, into a gross misinterpretation of events on my part.

Huh! I thought I was being the chivalric hero, like those that are sung of in stirring terms by travelling troupes of bards. There I was, one moment stepping up from the obscurity of my noble father's shadow, to save a poor damsel in distress from a fate unmentionable. But the very next moment I am the donkey in the street play. I am betrayed by my immature sense of chivalry, while this woman allows her husband to treat her as a possession, the wont of all arrogant Normans of my limited acquaintance.

This is not the way of a true Christian marriage that my parents teach me by their everyday example. Theirs is a love match of equal partners, not the public abuse by one to the other. Nor even unto the extent of defiling public decency, as with the married couple to which I have just borne witness.

Why should I be the one to feel the shame of my actions? Why does this young woman, barely no older than I, and her old-man-who-should-know-better of a husband carry on so shamelessly? I am angry now but I must cool my irritation, my indignation, to calmly restore order here and retire from this place with whatever dignity I may muster.

"Well, Madam," I say, "I do apologise for my intrusion into your matrimonial affairs. If only you can appreciate the appearance of the incident from my point of view, you may warrant me with some justification for my action. My honest interpretation of the strange rituals which contribute to your particular fantasy of wedded bliss, looked to all the world like the ravaging of a minor by a savage and aged outlaw. I am sure he will return soon to rescue his bride from a fate far worse than he had intended. Therefore, we will gladly take our leave of you before we become embroiled in another misunderstanding, one which may end in tragedy."

"Wait, boy!" the woman cries, her eyes aflash, "You cannot just leave me here, alone, defenceless, at the mercy of wolves or bears, or worse, the real outlaws who occupy these woods!"

"You are right Madam, I should not. Though we have heard no reports of recent outlaw activity within these seldom travelled woods, we will walk you to the edge—"

"Walk? Why do you talk of walk? Are you vagabonds who have not mounts? Who are you anyway? Where's your father? What would he be doing leaving you running wild around the country? Your companions ... I mean, the big brute looks too dumb to be your father, to be anyone's father for that matter, and the scrawny boy looks dressed fit only for an orphan."

I laugh, and shake my head.

"The big fellow Henry Short, or Henry Little by turn, is my ..." I was going to tell her that he was 'my father's man', but my senses tell me not to betray exactly who we are, lest her spouse seeks us out for any offence we have caused his noble posterior, not least the number of linen thread stitches that he might not be able to ride comfortable for a week. "... is my companion in lieu of pro tempore guardian, while Hugh of the Green here, is my oldest and best friend. He is fatherless, it is to be admitted, while his mother is a pauper through no fault of her own. I am Robert of Oak— er ... Bartonshire, though my friends call me Robin. We are merely competing archers, travelling from tournament to tournament, presently on our way to the Spring market fair at Rosemont. We do indeed have mounts, tethered a hundred yards back along the trail, lest they betrayed our intentions to interrupt your er, companions."

At the Castle and on Castle business, Henry normally wears a long white sleeveless tunic over chain mail, that tunic marked in embroidered threads with the blue and green emblem of Bartonshire. When summonsed for this expedition, Henry wanted to wear the red dragon over blue wavy lines and barleycorn ears representing the marriage of Wales and innkeeper's daughter by the river Bar. My father had adopted that design when knighted, but no tabard yet made would fit the girth of our Henry. Alwen promised to embroider one ready for his return, but asked him in the meantime to discard his chain mail and wear an ordinary woollen smock over his linen undershirt, so as not to invite questions why he was not serving duty in the Castle or on patrol in the County.

As for Hugh, his widowed mother is infirm and she lives through the generosity of Father Andrew's collection plate. Thus he wears the hand-me-downs left behind by his much older brothers who, though serfs, were forced to move far and wide while the old Lord abandoned the fields of the Manor of Oaklea to rot.

"We need hasten to catch up with my husband the Count, Master Robin, before nightfall, or he will be gone, off towards the coast."

"There will be no catching him, Madam," speaks Henry for the first time, as the only one of the three travellers that knows the lie of the land hereabouts with any certainty, "by the time we fetch our horses here and mount up, that cart being hauled by four horses will have easy reached the fork beyond the wood. There, the coast road is due east through Hensmere, if that be the way you was heading. We can leave thee there to await the return of your husband, whilst we press on north to Rosemont."

She bites her lip, before saying, "But, you owe me favour, all three of you, by separating me from my spouse and protector, through your foolish intervention, as well as grievously wounding him in turn. My husband has undoubtedly abandoned me, believing me lost forever to a band of cutthroat outlaws with their lethal longbows. He will not return for me, I assure you and I find I am abandoned to the fate of a common waif, instead of a Lady, and therefore in need of assistance of a man or men of knightly virtue."

"No, that obligation cannot be," I say in protest, after all, what knight would leave such a beautiful creature to the fate of fugitives from justice? No, I would cut down every tree in this wood to find her if she was my true love. "Your own husband knight will surely return with men pressed from the burghers of Hensmere-town, to save you. No Lord or Knight of any honour would leave a single stick of this wood unturned until he does."

"Ha!" she scoffs, bitterly, "what little you, a boy travelling the roads alongside an idiot and an orphan, know of Norman Knights! My new husband is a Count of Picardy. He has lost his lands in Burgundy and Picardy through swapping sides in treachery, and ended up fighting on the losing side. His widowed mother lives on the income from his Norman holdings, so he has only a poor estate in Lancashire, inherited from his maternal grandmother, to barely keep his head above his creditors. Even now his Baronial creditors pursue him for their retribution. No doubt the Count thought that you three adventurers were in the pay of the Barons, whose patience has worn thin and prepared to take their pounds of flesh in blood and sinew rather than the promise of gold. I fancy, even as he runs, he believes you might even hold me for ransom."

I would never have considered this. Kidnap and ransom? We hear of this from wilder parts of the kingdom and abroad, but not here in Bartonshire. It seems incredible.

"Madam, we have a full day lying fallow in our itinerary tomorrow, which we intended for archery practice. We could instead use that day in company with you to Hensmere. Thus we might stay your spouse's preparations for battle with outlaws, and smooth over any misunderstanding of our intentions towards you both."

"My 'good husband' will ne'er tarry long in Hensmere, Master Robin, or wherever this road takes him, 'cept for long enough to remove and sew up the wounds from your arrow," she sniggers prettily at the thought, though she tries hard to suppress the emotion, "Nay, he will ride like the wind to relieve me of my dowry, even if he has to perch upon a cushion, and leave me to suffer my fate as a penniless tramp upon the King's highway."

"But—" I try to say.

"But naught, Robin, boy archer from ... Oak Lea, was it? I met my new-found and now newly-lost husband for only the first time yesterday; we exchanged our betrothal rings barely an hour before our arranged marriage at the door of the church of St Egberdha in Wellock Brigga. He thinks so little of me as his lifelong partner, that he dismissed my maid immediately, because he didn't like her. He told me that he would direct one of his own housemaids serve me instead, once we return to Lancashire.

"Then he tried to impose himself upon me in his cart before we even got to the wedding breakfast yestereve. I had to slap him harder than I slapped you, in order to deter his ardour, as I felt he should respect me at least until I was properly prepared as a gentlewoman to surrender to his carnal appetites. Last night I was spared his ministrations only by his drinking a surfeit of rough tavern wine. This morning, once the jolting ride of this wood drove the sleep from his eyes and the stupor from his limbs, he dragged me from the cart, ready to deflower me in front of common witness. I suppose he wanted to show them how much he despised having to marry me for my father's wealth in the form of a generous dowry. I had promised my mother that I would marry any man my father ... my late father that is, was determined on choosing, whoever he was. Since meeting the Count, however, I had changed my mind to submit willingly to his bold and savage advances."

"Henry and me'll go fetch the horses, Robin," says Hugh, stepping between me and the Lady, bowing as he does so, adding, "Madam, it is our greatest pleasure to serve you," which brings a smile to her lips. He always was charming, unlike me his face never goes bright red with embarrassment.

Then he turns, claps me on the shoulder and leans in to whisper in my ear, "She's a lovely girl, Rob, I'll grant thee that, but too high born she be for the likes of us." Then he was gone, although I could hear his shrill laugh and Henry's gruff hee-haw from a distance behind me.

Hugh constantly reminds me of what he considers hard fact. He believes that when Will and Alwen have their own child born, I will be left out in the cold. Just like the rest of the "Marauder Orphans", as Hugh calls the group of a dozen or so that were born around the same time. We all arrived within a month of each other, some eighteen years ago. He includes me in the group, none of whom know who their true blood fathers are.

But I do know and love my father, Will is my natural father and I know he loves me as his own true son, as much as I love him as the father I should have had since my earliest memory. Alwen too, loves me both as a dear half-brother by blood, raised by hr since the day I was born, and her step-son by marriage. But Hugh and his other friends know little of my real father, nor his noble act in first marrying my sister, that is a tale of romance told only among the older womenfolk.

I bear Hugh's frequent jibes without retort, but only because I must, as his best friend.

The Lady coughs, to attract my attention, which was otherwise stolen by the depth of my inner thoughts.

"I am sorry, my Lady? I am afraid I know not your name."

She is shivering in her light silk bliaut, dyed in the deepest blue. Under the green canopy of fresh sprouted leaves, the road through the wood is in deep shade and still cold for this time of the year. Clearly she had been stripped of her thick woollen cloak while in the cart, and she was in need of a thicker coat right now.

I had pulled on my leather jerkin, lined with warm sheepskin, when I had entered the cool wood. I hastily pull off my bow and a leather bag containing bread and dried river fish which I was keeping for lunch. That makes me think it must be about lunchtime now. I pull off my jerkin and offer it to her. She half turns, offering me her shoulder, so I drape the coat over her shoulders and, as I do so, she turns back to face me. Her hands and arms are trapped inside the coat, she cannot button it up herself. I hesitate. She looks at me with one raised eyebrow in expectation, like I was her maid or some tavern servant sent to do her every bidding. I shrug my shoulders and do up the three bottom buttons, then hesitate, miss out the fourth one ... at chest height, and button up the top button at her throat.