The Archer

"Get in and soak ye'self, Will," Robin encourages as befits the perfect host in the making, "I'll send up your own personal servant to help wash your hair and rub the leagues out of your feet, with more jugs of fresh hot rinsing water and hot towels directly." He departs with my worn travel-stained old clothes and rather sorry-looking boots.

It is a couple of minutes after I soap myself all over, the room growing dim in the early evening behind the bath curtain, despite the large glazed windows I espied earlier on two sides of the room, one to the street out front, the other towards the church atop the hill. I relax into the warm water and close my eyes. I open just one eye as another jug of hot water is quietly poured into the bath from behind my head, to maintain the comfortable tub temperature.

It must be the deaf and dumb old servant, come to minister to my aches and pains.

Then, surprisingly soft hands for such an old servant, begin to massage soap into my head, neck and shoulders, smoothing out the apprehensions, aches and pains that have built up during the long day on the road. I close both my eyes again and relax, giving myself up to the servant's expert ministrations. Tomorrow, yes tomorrow I can confront Alwen and bluff my way through that we are but complete and utter strangers to one another. I can manage that, and thus still my beating heart, surely.

Then the old servant pads almost silently around to my front. My feet are gently pulled from the warm water one by one, first the right, then the left and the ache from the road through my worn out boots is rubbed out of my toes and the soles of my feet by a clearly firm but gentle-handed old retainer.

I stifle a groan as he grasps my painful left big toe and I open my eyes lazily to murmur my thanks to the old servant.

I sit up in shock, splashing waves of bath water in all directions!

"Dame Alwen!" I yell.

"William Bowman," she says quite calmly in reply, and smiles with a nod, her sparkling clear blue eyes, that I remember so well from my nightly dreams, looking directly into my shocked face, "Were you not relaxing comfortable when I washed your hair and feet, my lord?"

"I- I'm no lord, Ma'am, merely a travelling longbow trader and arrow fletcher," I stutter, "I thought you were my appointed manservant come help me wash and dress."

"I believe I am indeed your servant, sir, but I am clearly no man," her gentle smile full of warmth, one of her small hands now resting on my knee, my foot having been wrenched from her gentle grip by the violence of my evasive action. Her beautiful blue eyes were alive in the dancing candlelight, locked onto mine own.

"To me, Will, you will always be my lord," she whispers.

I look down at the water, fortunately scummed by soap and the soil of the road, but my mind imagines the murky liquid to be far more translucent than it is, even in the early gloom of the evening, despite the flickering candle and fire flames, the dying sunlight and the partial shade afforded by the curtains.

"I am at a severe disadvantage of apparel, my lady," I say rather unnecessarily, returning my eyes to gaze upon her angelic face. She appears not to have altered the focus of her perception while I looked away, her lovely eyes still steadily resting upon mine, a smile playful on her ripe full lips.

"There's no need for shyness between us, William Bowman, latterly Will Fletcher, surely?" she says, her voice both warm as midsummer and soft as settling snow.

"No?"

"No, of course there should be no embarrassment between ... husband and wife, should there, William Archer?"

The cat is out of the bag. She knows me.

She has certainly known me, I now realise, since she sent her son out to fetch me here. To lure me by resolve-weakening temptations deep into the sticky trap of her enveloping web. I should have recognised the signs, they were obvious enough. Perhaps I hadn't wanted to see them, maybe I welcomed the entrapment, seeking finality to my nightly dreams, my long lingering nightmares.

"I- I believe Robin said that his guardian was a widow, soon to be remarried next week, the sole reason for this joint archery competition and celebration?" I stutter, "One that required my particular attendance as a competitor. So what is this trickery all about? Surely after all this time we cannot still be husband and wife?"

"Ah, this is where you come in, Will Bowman, the one and only William Archer that once was," Alwen squeezes my knee as she speaks, to my clear discomfort, "The Shire Reeve is indeed courting my hand with a view to arranging his long-desired marriage to me and through that act wishes to secure this inn and other possessions, the likes of many of which he has but an inkling, for himself."

"What of your son, Robin?" I manage to say in my discomfort at the intimacy of her soft touch.

"My son? Robin? Yes, of course, my son, he is our son, after all." She pauses as she gathers her thoughts. "I assure you, Will, that Robin has absolutely no desire to run the inn for the foreseeable future. He has other ambitions in mind. He wishes to learn the art of making longbows and competing in competition with the best archers in the country."

"So Robin in his youth may be unconcerned for his future, but why would the Reeve desire to possess the tenancy of this inn, when he has a whole castle at his command?" I say, uncomfortable with this woman who I barely know, within touching distance so close in my bedchamber, while we freely, and seemingly quite casually on her part, discuss her near-future intended husband to be.

"Are you of the opinion, then, my lord William, that Sir Giles the Reeve would desire me in marriage only for the day to day value of the earnings from my hostelry establishment, and that I would otherwise be considered an unworthy spouse of a knight or any other titled gentleman?"

"Of course not, Madam, a more attractive and respectable woman I have yet to encounter, if I may be so bold," I interject as swiftly as I am able, "I am certain that you are worthy of even the most discerning chevalier."

"So kind of you to say, Will, although, as you are my present husband you are surely entitled to be free to be as bold in your compliments to me as you wish. Although it is some years since we have met, I hope I have not changed in appearance too severely to appear unpotable to you, while indeed, to me you appear to be as handsome a man as you ever were."

She pauses, perhaps waiting for me to comment further in response, which I feel unable to do; platitudes being cheap and pointless. The woman is so bold and confident in her comely looks. In such a public establishment, where myriads of people come and go, compliments by strangers to unattached alewives are no doubt commonplace, whether they be true beauties or not. In Alwen's case, any comments regarding the positivity of her comely appearance would be truths without denial.

"To answer your question," the lady continued, "The Shire Reeve was appointed long ago by the King, who is old and said to be no longer as hearty as he once was, aged by disappointment before his time. The Reeve too, is old and greedy, grown fat and lazy, reliably said to be creaming off for himself a large portion of the King's taxes he is charged to collect. The King is understood to be aware of the shortfall in expected returns from this shire and may well supplant him with a new appointment. Also, the crown prince has his own younger man favoured to take up the post when the King dies, leaving the Reeve homeless and without an income to supplement what he has ferreted away for the comfort of his declining years."

I nod, accepting that nobles in office are as likely as not to find their fortunes rise and fall as the tides of kings and princes come and go. If the Shire Reeve is as old as she intimates, surely as old as I, he may prove to be as small a burden upon her lifestyle as I have been throughout our own long tenure of matrimony.

She has clearly made enquiries far and wide which have confirmed that I was still alive and, on becoming aware that I was last here a few seasons ago and lately returned to the shire, has made her plans to have rid of me as a marriage partner by some annulment, so she can become the entitled Lady she wishes to be.

I have clearly been lured here to give her the opportunity to reason with me or, at last resort, to be bribed into departing with sufficient coin in my purse that will prevent me ever returning to darken her doorstep again. She is her mother's daughter all right, expedient and resourceful in achieving the desired result she seeks.

But what of her son Robin, where does he fit into this deceptive scheme?

"But surely, Madam," I contend in as workmanlike manner as I can, considering my disadvantage of total nakedness in front of a lady, "The inn is in your charge under trust for but for a short duration until Robin comes of age and inherits this tenancy from his father? How does this affect your desire to be free of me and our sham matrimony to remarry your ... current admirer?"

"It is my hope that Robin will not inherit from his father for many more years to come, my lord." Alwen's smile fades and she lifts her hand from my knee, joining the other one on the edge of my bath,as she changes her manner of address towards me to a more formal one. The water too, is cooling as fast as the dip in the temperature of the atmosphere now existing between us.

"I thought Robin said his father, the owner of this inn, died this last winter, Madam?" I ask, to clarify my understanding of the complications of the young alewife's situation, our conversation becomes more formal as we hopefully move towards a better understanding between us and relieve us both of the burden of this impossible relationship, forged by a necessity which is now long past.

"We both know, Sir, that my father was not Robin's father. My father, since his return from the wars, was never in the rudest of health, either physically or in his mind. He passed on in peace during the last Advent, Will," she explained, with furrowed brow and slumped shoulders, "Entrusting the possession of the inn's tenancy to me on one single proviso," a small smile returns to play with the corners of her mouth as she pauses.

"It seems we are both plagued with provisions and conditions, Alwen," I observe, noting her informal address to me once more.

Perhaps, I think to myself, we can come to a speedy resolution of the issue between us, as we begin to discover how much each is prepared to concede in order to be free of our burdensome connection.

"Aye, Will, we are ever that!" she laughs, nodding her head, a tress of her loose long blond hair falls down across her face. She draws up a damp hand to sweep the troublesome hank of hair back behind her ear. "My father was severely crippled in the war, the battle went badly, he was wounded, captured and badly disfigured; the French chopped off his index and middle fingers of both hands, and in addition he was ... gelded." Alwen sobs momentarily before recovering her composure.

Involuntarily, I place my hands on her hands and squeeze gently.

"He returned a troubled and bitter man," she continues, a small smile returning at my caring touch, "Blaming my mother and I for all of his misfortunes. He savagely beat both my mother and I for our sins of fornication, however innocent or sacrificing we were and ... my mother died as a result of her wounds. My father was shocked by the event and his already-troubled mind utterly destroyed. There were many bitter repercussions, Will, when the menfolk returned. Well, thereafter he hated the infant Robin for many years, refusing him entry even unto his sight. Robin, bless him, has always has a good heart and kept bouncing back eager to please him. My father never repented his bitter feelings, even at the very end. The proviso by his last will and testament sworn in front of witnesses was that the inn would belong to my one true husband, but only after I receive the blessing of Almighty God for my marriage in the church up the lane. Thereafter, once the marriage had been blessed, and ownership legally established, the inn would pass to the eldest son of the marriage in due course."

"And your recently affianced Shire Reeve wishes to tie the knot next week at the completion of the tournament and secure this inn for himself?"

"Aye, that is his plan, once he has officially annulled our prior marriage on the legal basis of my husband's abandonment of longer than five years."

"You have not annulled our marriage yet?" I ask amazed, not believing what is happening, "Nor remarried in the years gone by since? Robin led me to believe that you were a Lady and a widow?"

"In a way, according to law and custom, I am a widow. The Reeve has declared you, William Archer, my missing husband, to be deceased by his Bishop's decree this Lady Day past, very much against my own wishes," Alwen insists with feeling, her jaw juts out defiantly, "I have refused to accept his ruling while I believe you still lived and therefore refuse to wear widow's weeds or bow to acknowledge Sir Giles' imposed engagement. Even now, the Reeve has ridden to seek leave for the annulment of the marriage by the higher authority of the Archbishop. So, it is up to you, my lord, whether you leave me to the fate of being married to a man I detest, or otherwise."

She looks at me intently, with those big clear blue eyes, her knuckles white as she grips the edge of the bath. Those same penetrating eyes that have haunted every night of my life since I first saw them all too briefly so many years ago. What is she saying? I can barely comprehend it. She doesn't want me to upset her happy life running her successful inn, nor does she want the old Shire Reeve to steal all her hard work and deny Robin his inheritance as her son?

What of the lord of this manor, I wonder? I saw on my way into the settlement the obvious recent improvements to the church wall, the new tenements, the enlarged inn, rebuilt mill and leet, and the new village well atop the hill by the church. The local lord clearly has purpose, energy and considerable wealth at his disposal to invest.

Of course! That is who she wishes to be free to marry, the Lord of the Manor. A local man, that she has probably known boy and man since before Robin was even born. He is likely of a similar age to Alwen. No, she was never interested in either me or this fat Shire Reeve who is enlisting the help of the church for his own acquisitive purposes. Only yesterday I was in that shire town and saw the crumbling castle and the soldiers under the Reeve's command; they were a rabble.

It was a mistake coming here in the first place and I must be gone from here, now. If only for the good of my sanity.

"Our marriage was borne of necessity," I said to Alwen, with all the feeling I can muster, "And I believe marriages should be based on love and not used or abused for the convenience of position or wealth. I wouldn't want to be the cause of you being wedded to a man you despise, Alwen, so I would gladly swear on the bible in your church, as God is my witness, that Robin is our true son by stint of holy matrimony and lawful heir to your inn. Once that has been lawfully established, we would be free to divorce each other."

She sat on her haunches, silent, open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the venom of my words.

"I was not yet 20 when we wed and had not my father's necessary consent, nor were banns read out at my home chapel, which would cast doubt upon the validity of our union. Once the blessing has been made on our union, to prove Robin's rights, and, following on soon after, our welcome dissolution by annulment, you would be free of any further commitment to our marriage. Then I could depart this place forthwith, never to return."

"So, you are telling me that there is no love between us?" Her eyes blazed in the candlelight. "You do not love me, then, me, your wedded wife?"

"No, Lady," I lied as convincingly as I was able, unwilling to surrender to her the knowledge of my breaking heart, "I do not. I never did have any feelings for you. You must see that our meeting and betrothal was of two complete strangers. This marriage was solely of your mother's manufacture, to provide you with the means required to preserve your honour."

"And," she sneered, "To free us of our commitments to each other, for how many pieces of silver would you like me to line your purse with, in addition to the payments already promised? Huh, my lord?"

Before I can reply, she pulls up a cord around her neck and throws it at me. It passes close by my head and hits the curtain behind me.

"Nothing at all, Madam," I sneer back just as venomously, "I was already paid by your dear mother, in far more than coin. I wish only to be rid of the memory of this place and the sham ceremony we went through wiped clean from the annals of history and my memory, gladly."

"Well I am sure that can be arranged to your satisfaction," she shouts, as she rises, her deep blue smock soaked around the hem from the bath water, "I will summon Father Andrew from the dining hall directly!"

"Please do, Madam!" I retort, "An immediate summons would be too long a tarry in this den of iniquity, and, while you are about your orders you could ask your ward Robin to return my clothes and walking boots directly. I wish to remain here not a single breath longer than I have to!"

"Very well, my lord!" she snaps, "I will delay the presence of your good self no longer!"

She storms through the bath curtains like a force of nature, leaving an icy blast of cold air in her wake. And there were no hot towels as promised as the maids who had lately arrived without, all troupe after her towards the bedchamber door.

Just then, the sound of many heavily-laded horses can be heard racing down the hill. Alwen stops and listens, moving to the window to observe the scene without. The horses pull up outside.

"Damnation!" she cries into the room, "It is the Reeve, he hath returned."

She flies out the door, followed by the maids, all of them aflutter.

I arise from my cool bath and dry myself using the bed garment as best I can in lieu of proper towels, and don the long robe to prevent any chills, slipping my feet gratefully into the kid slippers.

I remember that she threw something at me and I move around the bathtub, curiously seeking that cord. I pick it up. At the end of the loop is a small linen bag, containing six silver pennies, each bearing the head of a long-dead king.

***

THE REEVE RESOLVES

Robin soon arrives in my chamber, sans my old garments. This hostelry is surely the worst of inns, I am now minded to opine. He holds out his hand to greet me, his mouth set grimly, unsure of his reception. Behind him stands the old priest who conducted our marriage ceremony a couple of days short of eighteen years ago, Father Andrew. He was bent, almost as much as one of my heavily strung bows but with eyes that still sparkle with the life and intelligence I remember of old.

"Father?" Robin asks of me.

I sigh, grasp his hand and pull him into an embrace with mine other hand.

"I'm proud to know you as my son, Robin, no doubt you were sworn to secrecy of this fact by your mother?"

"Aye sir, I was. I ... I hinted that my sister was also my mother, to prepare you without going so far as breaking my word. It appears she has failed to persuade you-"

"Oh she's been persuasive enough and got her way, Robin, it's just that one of her new admirers has returned before she could send me packing on my way."

"I rather hoped you would fare better in restoring relations than you appear to have managed, father," the youth shakes his head mournfully.

"Well, I shall be gone from here as soon as I am dressed."