Chapter 3: The Road to Oaklea

THE morning is misty and murky, still within the grip of the late nip of winter as the declining season gradually releases its cold hold on the land, reluctantly giving way to the burgeoning emergence of spring. The sky is a bright blue, clear of all bar thin streaky cloud, so the sun soon burns off the lingering dew by the time the archers keenly break their fast and gather in anticipation on the archery field.

I seek out the gaming clerks as soon as they appear on the scene and place my stakes of chance with several of them. Some bookkeepers are old acquaintances who had already suspected that they remembered me of old and raise their eyebrows at the particularity of my investments, before shortening the odds in consequence, but only after shaking my hand to cement the honour of my wagers.

Young Robin steps forward as the lowest of the qualifiers from the previous round at the commencement of the final round. The target is now placed a hundred and fifty paces away from the oche, but can clearly be seen in the bright mid-morning light. Robin relaxes his flesh-spare but broad-boned shoulders, breathing easily as directed, draws his smaller borrowed bow to its fullest extent and lets fly. The first arrow, one of a dozen I had freshly refletched for him during the previous evening, flies straight and true, landing just inside the top of the gold centre bull.

The gathered crowd, which is large, as befits the draw of the contest, gasps at this feat by such a callow youth, who had shewn so little likely promise in earlier rounds. There is much speculation that the first shot is a fluke and therefore cannot possibly be repeated by the second arrow of his set. Pledges are swiftly placed accordingly, stakes and promises of odds eagerly exchanged between the interested parties. The particular bookmakers I had spoken to earlier, I notice, appear more than willing to take wagers that the feat will not be repeated, before the attention of all in attendance focuses back to the field as Robin draws his bow for his second shot.

The second arrow describes a perfect arc and buries itself deep in the target, the feathered end vibrating violently following the impact. But all eyes strain towards the point of the dart, where has it landed?

The crowd whose view is blocked by larger spectators in front of them, try to surge forward to see up the field. Others, whose eyesight is obscured, weak or fading, desperately question younger, taller men around them, keen to learn if their wager has found success or not. Many different opinions of the result are bandied back and forth, yays and nays by turn. Spirits rise and fall according to this opinion or that.

“Centre of the bull!” cries the master of the target, waving a flag for the benefit of the steward at the firing point. A very few cheers and many more groans come from the crowd while cut and whole silver coins exchange hands with many more smiles from the money changers than the gamblers. Further wagers are placed for the final shot due from Robin, although much fewer stakes are placed than hitherto, the odds narrowing from the heights they were.

Robin smiles at me as he steps up to the oche again. He shakes any tension out of his shoulders and relaxes. Robin breathes as I taught him, nocks the arrow in the string which has been reversed twisted with additional threads woven in at the nocking points for extra strength and stability. He exhales his second breath completely as he draws bead and releases the arrow. Once more the throng holds its breath as the dart soars and flies, to bury itself in the bull, almost touching the second arrow. Dead centre once again!

A ripple of spontaneous applause runs around the crowd. I look around at my fellow competitors. A few look ashen. The two old veterans see me looking their way and nod to me with a grin. They know the way the land lies, having experience of so many of these exhibitions.

Nobody else comes close to Robin, try though they may. Alan of Wakefield, a veteran archer I have met many times on my travels, wins second prize, pipping my earlier effort by a whisker. No matter, all present in the throng know it was my bow loaned to the youth that won the prize for Robin and I sell all my spare bows and five belt quivers of arrows, all that I had been able to carry on foot on this trip. And, as a bonus to the few pennies won in prize money, I had a full purse of silver collected from the bookmakers who had happily made fortunes themselves from Robin’s unexpected triumph.

Robin is excited at winning first prize, of course he is. I still remember my first win, and not only because the youngster puts me so in mind of it but the circumstances which followed.

We pack up our few belongings for the short journey to Oaklea. I am certainly travelling much lighter burdened than previously, having just my own bow and quiver to carry. Robin offers to carry my small bag of personal belongings on the journey.

Robin has a nice chestnut bay to ride, while I am as usual tramping to our destination on foot. We leave the town in mid afternoon, knowing we had a four to five hour brisk walk to Oaklea, so we can’t leave our departure too late if we are to arrive before risking encountering the dangers of travelling in the dark.

We talk much along the way. Robin questions me of the places I have visited, while I wish to hear more about his village and his home life, if only to learn more of his guardian, the Dame Alwen.

Eventually, we get around to the subject of his home village and the inn, the future running of which he considers boring, compared to the excitement of the tourney. His long-ailing invalided father died early in the cold damp of the immediately past winter, he says. His recently-widowed sister, Alwen, runs the inn efficiently, as she has done for many years and would continue to do so even after her wedding. His own mother he cannot remember, she died when he was an infant and his sister Alwen had been guardian and surrogate mother to him for as long as he could remember.

I am sorry to hear that the alewife had died. I do not have any particular feelings for her in my heart, but not only was she kind to me, she was the only woman whose bed I had shared since that night that she made me a man through her passion.

It seems to me that the innkeeper must have taken his grandson Robin under his wing as if he was his own child and kept hid from him the fact that he was actually his ‘sister’ Alwen’s child. This means, I suppose, that Robin will inherit the inn in three or four years’ time when he becomes of age. In practice this probably means that Alwen will continue to run the inn until Robin took a wife for himself.

I cannot help but wonder who Alwen had once been married to (after divorcing me, of course) and to whom she was now due to wed but Robin doesn’t mention the deceased husband nor any nephews or nieces. I remember from our conversation last night that he called his guardian the “Lady Alwen”, so it appears her second husband was either a lord or a knight at least. Robin does not elaborate and despite my curiosity I do not feel I want to add to the pain in my heart by asking him about her marriages, either.

Robin does, however, boast that the inn’s ale has a fine reputation that brings visitors from far and wide. Here I can afford to smile openly at his swelling pride. When I followed up Jacob’s flight from the city to the mysterious “inn with the well”, that the city alewife directed me to some six years ago, I already knew that the Jew could only mean that he was sheltering in the inn at Oaklea.