The Archer's Apprentice

I have barely seen an orange except where some large manors want to impress their neighbours, and have not eaten any except in the south of France and anywhere in Spain, where they can be plucked off the trees in season.

"I know not where we would get such fruits—"

"Sire," one of the townsfolk, drafted into guarding the gate, with so many soldiers sick, says, "my uncle had a barrel of limes delivered two weeks ago. He's abed and cursing that he cannot reach his shop. The barrel is wax sealed, Sire, to preserve them, and my uncle's cellar down near the river is cool to near freezing, even in summer."

Father Andrew hears the exchange, "Is it Matthew Greening that is your uncle, with his grocery in Brook Lane?"

The man nods vigorously.

"I have had his limes before. Mince them using skins, pips, juice and all, William, they will make a fine cordial to mix with water that has first been boiled, to make a tonic to pass around for all."

"We have plenty of boiled water, I set that in motion last night. Right, Master Greening, Roger, isn't it?"

"Aye, Sire," he replies, standing up straight exactly like any keen new soldier in my Castle should.

"Take two men and, once Father Andrew has unhitched his horse and moved a safe distance away, pull each of those carts to the Castle kitchens. Then use a cart to fetch the keys from your uncle, tell him that I will pay for the limes from the Castle funds. Collect the barrel and take that to the kitchen."

"Aye, Sire, I will," he replies, a grin on his face as wide as the gate, before turning to a couple of temporary guards. "Johnny, Mykie, come with me, we have vital Castle business to do for his Lordship!"

Father Andrew slips the first cart's harness from the horse and leads him a distance away, directing the other draymen to do likewise.

"There be a message from Alwen tied around one of the barrels," he calls, "the one atop the first cart."

"How does she fare?" I ask.

"As well if not better than expected. What news of Robin shall I take back to Alwen?"

"Tell her he is not in danger here, that he has gone on to complete his round of tourneys. Henry Small is with Robin and Hugh and will ensure nothing befalls them."

"Farewell, Will," he cries as he steps up a fallen tree to mount the horse from, and making himself comfortable on his saddleless steed, "I will see you are passed word of any changes in her condition."

"I appreciate it, my friend," I call out as the Priest waves me farewell, before I depart to warn the kitchens of their new requirements, gruel from the vegetables and cordial from the fruit.

11.

Word of Will

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

I feel that I have everything within my power, that which I am able to do, under control. I can do no more. What I have no influence over I leave to God or to other man to do what is best.

My William is as safe where he is in the Castle, as he could be anywhere. I do wish he was here with me to hold for mutual comfort, of course, but I realise that he could not rest here if he was prevented from doing his duty.

I pray that in good time he returns to me whole and at ease in his mind. I know Will is no man of God. But he has never decried my faith. He says he is glad of it as it is a comfort to me during his long absences, but he has never had his "Road to Damascus" and has seen too much hell on his own path to believe so trustingly as I do in the Almighty's Script. He does choose to humour me, by attending Mass on Sundays and Holy Days as duty demands, and treats passing clergy with respect.

He particularly appreciates and honours his deep friendship with Father Andrew as man to man, much as his friendship with the Jew Jacob, bless his soul, just as I love Jessica, the daughter of Jacob as a dear friend and comforting correspondent, who is my only other confident with regard to the depth of feelings I hold, that I will always hold, for my dear William.

Father Andrew has passed on my letter to Will this morning, which tells him how much love I feel for him, have always invested in him and will continue to for rest of my life and throughout the everlasting life to follow. I have told him in my letter that I know he cannot convey his feelings to me in like manner in case his parchment passes on the deadly ailment and becomes the instrument of my and our child's deaths. But he knows that I endure without him in the certain knowledge that his love for me is powerful and as eternal as mine own.

Upon his return, Father Andrew assures me that William looks well, if tired, and has everything in place to contain the sickness within the town. Some have died but they are mercifully few. They are mainly old and infirm plus some sickly children from the poor riverside of the town, where the tenements are crowded and damp. It is there that the affliction has taken its strongest grip. The illnesses suffered in other parts of the town appear to have caught it by visiting the sick quarter and bringing the malady back to their own families.

Now Will has divided the town with internal pickets to avoid further incursions by the devilish vapours that are so deadly. They are burning all the firewood they can lay their hands on to boil the water for drinking and cleaning, as this seems effective and fewer new townsfolk seem to be succumbing to the fever, immediately after the first day that Will returned to take charge.

I am grateful that Robin is doing what he loves to do without a single care in the world, firing darts into a target. I am happy that he is in company with the dependable Henry Small, to see he is safe, as well as keep his friend Hugh out of mischief.

Robin practices every day, and has done so since he made his own bow and arrows out of scraps and saplings, copying the short bows most of the mounted men from the castle and hunters used at that time. When he was about 12, helping me clear out the lumber room, we found that old bow that I had hidden from my mother all those years ago. He fell onto it like it was manna from heaven. He held it up to the tiny light next the chimney, as if he was in awe of it.

He was in raptures, describing the perfect symmetry of heartwood and sapwood, the smooth feel of the finish, the majestic height, taller than any tall man he knew. And he even marvelled at the bow string, that had been carefully rolled and tied by a thread to the bow which it fitted so it wouldn't be lost. The bowstring was finer and smoother than any flaxen bow string that he had fashioned for himself, with extra threads woven in where strength was needed, where it attached to the bow and the nocking point. There was even a knot in the string to indicate the nocking point so that the archer could feel it without taking his eye off his target.

When he unravelled the bow string, it took all our combined strength to string it to the bow, the strength of tension on the bow remarkable.

"Why not try an arrow or two, Robin?" I had ventured, desiring even myself to see this wonderful vibrant, almost alive thing in action, but he looked at me, shaking his head as if I had casually asked him to catch a star to light up the hallway.

"My homemade arrows are but eighteen inches long, Alwen, to fit my small bows. This bow takes at least 30 inch or 36 inch arrows. Though I doubt I have the strength to even draw it. I need to make new arrows before I can even arm it."

I remember even now, smiling at the excitement in his face, as from where they were well hid, I pulled a quiver full of arrows, asking, "do you think these might do by any chance?"

At the time that I hid those mementoes of my new husband from Mother, I thought only that William Archer, was only a seller of bows, who used his demonstration of archery skills to show how good these bows were made.

I didn't know then that he made these finely tuned instruments, that he sold only his very own fashioned wares, plus those made by his master craftsman father. I only found this out when Rebecca, of the Red Hand Bank in Brugge, once of London, Canterbury, York and Lincoln, before their exile, came to tell me news which was too important to us both to leave to chance of correspondence.

Even Father Andrew, when he heard that Jacob had passed on, was sad, but was able to smile at the memories of sharing a jug or two of my finest ale with him on his many visits, even that which was his desperate flight into exile.

"I will miss him." The Priest was frank in his grief. "If there is one man who Saint Peter himself would set aside his key to let him pass through, as no gate should be barred to such a man. Saint Peter was once a Jew who converted, and Jesus was also born a Jewish man. As a race they may be accused of carrying the guilt of Herod, but that was only one evil man, driven by greed and self-preservation, against a whole race of noble people, which included the Apostle Saints, his beloved mother Mary and Joseph the Carpenter."

When her dear father Jacob, a wealthy but kindly man who visited us far more often than justified by our small business, died, Rebecca had access to ledgers he kept locked away during his lifetime. A treasury of intrigue, she told me, that she would pore over late into the night, all written in the Hebbruic script that he had instilled in her.

One small but carefully wrapped ledger, written on the finest vellum, was the various accounts of William Archer, which revealed all his dealings with the Oaklea Inn over the years since our marriage.

He had financed buying the barley at wholesale prices when it was cheap and storing it, selling it on to small alewives at increasing prices as grain grew scarce, yet keeping the price low for Oaklea.

It was William who invested in the new deep stone lined wells, the rebuilding of our destroyed mill, the renovations to the mill pond water supply. He even supplied the road stone to rebuild the previously poor track which existed from Oaklea to Bartown. It may not have been all Will's doing, as Jacob treated Will like the son he never had, so he invested the travelling archer's savings carefully in business here, where he knew Will had emotional ties.

Poor Rebecca, she loved Will too, though he had known her as a child much younger than I, at the time when we first met.

"He loves me as he would a sister, Alwen. He saved my life when we were exiled," she told me when we met for only the second time, though we had corresponded regularly since that first meeting seven years ago, "and he never spoke of love, although why would he to a little girl looking at him with moon-big eyes? But I sneaked a peek once in the bath house and, hanging around his neck, was a ring, a token of love.

"The man I loved was deeply attached to another and I had to give him up for my sanity. But I was pleased when I met you and discovered that the love of his life was you, and although you never said anything, until I dragged it from you in your letters, I knew that you loved him too."

I fingered the betrothal ring on my finger that Will and I exchanged moments before we said our bonding vows, and she gripped my hands in shared emotion.

I showed her the blue bag with the silver coins that he had been paid to marry me, hanging around my neck, and we cried together. That was when we hatched our plan to lure Will to Oaklea, to end the hurt of separation and make us as happy as we ever dared hope we could be.

Now I am alone, I know not how long for. But in love, in truth, with Will filling my heart, I am never truly alone.

What else can I do?

Well, we have wells of fresh water, I have the cooper and his mate building stocks of barrels for ale, as our brew house is ever being extended, I have draymen and carts.

So I set the men to, hauling up fresh water from the wells, to fill new casks and sending them up to the Castle at Bartown, so that there is fresh, wholesome water which needs not boiling, saving time, firewood and backbreaking work before it is used to help the sick recover.

I have plenty of spare linen for bedclothes, spare nightshirts, and more material for the face masks that both Priest and Shire Reeve insist all must wear for their protection and prevention of spreading the pestilence. I resolve that I will have more made up on the morrow, so that the present ones can be replaced with new and the old washed and reused. And spares kept here too, in case the pestilence spreads.

As soon as bold cockerels rouse us to a new dawn, I set about organising the village wives to make up more masks and, later in the morning I will pack up the linen and fresh casks of water and ale onto carts to send off to the town.

12.

Kings & men

(Will Archer narrates)

Because of the plague inflicted upon us, I dare not let people pass through from the Riverside quarter to the other three quarters of the town. No one is allowed in or out of the town. But still people are selfish and defy my orders.

My pickets catch a group of passing merchants, who were trapped in the town when I imposed martial law yesterday. They were brought before me to judge. Martial law allows me that privilege but, even if it didn't, all four of the town's magistrates are beset by the plague. I put each of the transgressors in the stocks for an hour, but this is a sport that the three quarters of the town, who have access to the market square where the stocks are set up, feel unable to rise to. I put them in the lock up, under the Mayor's house, but one of them develops the ague by the end of the day and goes downhill fast, appearing to have little resistance to the effects of the sickness. He is older than the rest and much more corpulent, and therefore more used to comfort than the lock-up affords. Thus I move him to a better room, the only better room that is available, my own, which I barely need as I rarely leave my office.

Although I am tired, a regular routine of washing, wearing my face mask and not physically touching anyone appears to be keeping me free of sickness. This inspires others likewise. We will beat this soon, as I long to see and embrace Alwen. The separation when we were a day or more apart was not so painful as when she is but an hour's hard ride away.

These merchants tell me they arrived from Chester, which they say a few days earlier was sacked by the Welsh Prince of Powys, which I can scarcely believe. We Welsh are tough, but the Prince Maredudd must be in his seventies! The Earl of Chester, who has contained law and order with some success in the Welsh Marches, was drowned with the crown Prince William last year, leaving the Shire of Cheshire open to invasion at the earliest opportunity, the Spring, which is now upon us.

I confess in the past that I have fought once upon the side of Powys princes, and twice for the King of Gwynedd. Sometimes it is impossible to avoid the draft, but they were all mercifully short campaigns. Powys had been peaceful for fully five years, when their last uprising was easily defeated by Henry, at the cost of ten thousand cattle, before Maredudd was able to return to his palace.

It seems that even princes never learn their lessons and cannot look after their own territories without coverting someone else's. Old age doesn't always harvest wisdom.

I find there are moments of inactivity when I have time on my hands, to think, particularly about how I feel about playing the role of Shire Reeve. Me, a Welshman, a sworn enemy of the English in some times past and particularly the Normans, who have harried my countrymen so much and so cruelly.

It was an unexpected honour to be appointed and knighted by the King, a man I have served in battle many times, but always before I was pressed into service, by being in the wrong place and the wrong time. And, being valued for the skills I have, I was often not allowed to leave at battle end, but was sold with others like chattels from one Earl to another. I saw action in Flanders, Normandy, Burgundy, France, Gascony and Naples, among other places I know not even the names of.

At least the King was honest with me, the morning after my appointment. It is a tough job, he owned, but he thought I would be good and the pay, by way of thirty parts in a hundred of the taxes I collected was rewarding enough.

It is not the wealth created by the appointment I need, I am wealthy enough, it is the time that I want with my beloved wife and coming family that I cannot afford.

My savings, that I once thought lost, when my good friend Jacob was told to run for his life, with naught but the clothes he and his daughter stood up in, were in Oaklea all the time, invested in stone and water, mill and road.

The King and the Church between them took everything Jacob had in his treasury and divided it up between them. But neither office knew what they were doing, driven by illogical dogma, hatred and greed.

A contended society needs balancing, that is the art of running a household, a manor estate, a town, a shire, a country, a church. Bankers are needed for trade, as middle men to pay for services, exchanges of goods, particularly for those buying and selling, with no money to buy; they sell the idea to the bank, who examine the transaction and pay the money and take their cut. Once the church and Crown steal the bankers' money, they may be flush for a while, admitted, but that fleeting wealth is soon gone and then gone for good. And gone with it are the traders, the tradesmen and the customers. Where are they? Where have they all gone? They are queueing at the monastery and convent doors for alms as paupers.

How can you explain the concept of trade to a Church, that exists on donations through the collection plate or endowments from the wealthy who think they can buy their way through the eye of a needle?

How do you explain to a King who can't read or write, who cannot reckon figures and has been brought up to steal from his brother or his father, in fact everyone except his mother?

How can you reconcile reasonableness to a King who has locked up his older brother in Devizes Castle for the last fourteen years, and probably for the rest of his life? Who can explain to a King who has stolen the Earldom of Normandy from his brother and denied the title and its riches from the Earl's son, his own nephew by blood. How can he justify keeping the child locked up from the age of four to eight and only released him on threat of excommunication by Rome, for cruelly keeping the young titular Duke Apparent away from his mother?

Such are Kings and bishops and men. It is a pity that King Henry, who can be so vindictive in his selfish behaviour, is so larger than life and likeable as a man, that we always welcome him and his new bride with open arms whenever he comes acalling.

13.

Asail!

(Robin Oaklea, son of Will Archer, narrates)

I have never sailed before. I had declared this early on to my companions.

"Nor I," says the Lady Elinor.

Hugh has not been further away from home than Bartown in his life and he was only there twice. We all enjoyed the pleasant trip down the river, collectively our first venture on water. Feeling the uncertainty of movement under our feet, as soon as we were aboard, was easy to cope with. There is the slightly tiring swaying as we try to counter the movements by swaying against it, only to find we swing too far and almost topple, is disconcerting, but not at all unpleasant. The easier way is to grab a bulwark and simply move our heads to keep it level. It is easy to cope with and we three all enjoyed our primary river trip.

Now we set sail upon the ocean and, oh how the noise is so deafening! On the river, the countryside slipped by with barely a whisper. It was only for the last hour or so of the trip that Captain Leofwine tied on the square sail to urge us more swiftly to the port, lest we miss the tide, and the river captain risk ire from his brother captain.