Chapter 4: Oaklea Inn

WALKING from the east, I climb the steep hill past the old Saxon stone church, the scene of my only wedding ceremony, at the top of the hill and the dry-stone wall around it. Curiously, I notice a line of yew trees, often associated with churchyards, outside the line of the curtilage of the church. My memories may be dim in some respects, but I was sure those ancient yew trees were inside the graveyard all those years ago.

Yew trees always attract my interest for potential bow wood stock and I cannot fail to notice, as I tarry catching my breath after my long hill climb for a few moments, that many are the boughs and stems which could be cut and split for longbows, were the church or the noble landowners willing to allow me leave for the few pennies I can afford to pay. There are two newly-erected low stone buildings, built better than ordinary workshops, with fine weather-tight slate roofs, next to the church. The farthest one a smithy, its still-smoking forge and anvil in an open-sided lean-to by the side, now clearly shut down for the night, the embers cooling in the gathering dusk.

There is a well at the top of the hill with a stone wall around it. Like the buildings, clearly of recent construction. The impoverished manor must have taken a significant turn for the better in the past decade. Clearly, Alwen’s precious lord is or was a man of some substance and intelligence, investing in his land’s future, probably the somewhat wiser son of the wastrel old fool that went before.

A lone young boy sits on the well wall, warmed by the late afternoon sun high on the hill and cheerfully kicking his heels as young boys are wont to do in lieu of freer activities. Next to him is a pail of water, the sides glistening wet in the evening light, showing it has only recently been hauled up from the depths. The boy seems barely strong enough to have pulled up the bucket, but no-one else is in the vicinity.

“Good evenin’ Sire, are you William, known as the bowman?” the urchin asks of me, with a tentative smile on his lips, though his chest puffs out in pride of his appointed role as look-out.

“Aye,” I cannot help but grin in reply to the eager child, entrusted with this important task and apparently glad of it.

He hops off the wall, saying, “There’s fresh-drawn water in the pail, m’Lord for your refreshment. Ev’rything’s ready for thee; yon inn is at the foot of the hill on the right. I’m right away down the hill now to let the Lady know you’re safe arrived.”

With that, he trots off down the hill, to his supper and shortly after that, no doubt, abed. Beyond him I can see the main well-maintained stone lane that runs downhill through the village, with the inn on the right hand side and its stables behind, with vegetable and herb gardens, green with fresh spring shoots, beyond that down to the shallow brackish stream.

I remember crossing that little brook last time I came, so I could visit Jacob without being seen by the dame of the inn. Even from here I can see that the stream is very much deeper and wider, the lowering sun glistening off the surface, and impossible now to ford. It appears the old mill, burned to the ground by those original marauders, must have been rebuilt and the millpond to drive the wheel restored and greatly enlarged in the past six years or so since my visit.

I slake my thirst at the well, dipping my hands into the cool water in the pail and splash some over my head to the blessed relief of the back of my hot neck. The sun is sinking below the distant hills and the valley bottom is already plunging into darkness, the lamps are lit and the downstairs windows of the inn are flickering aglow with inviting lights.

The inn looks prosperous, as I walk gingerly, favouring my limp, making my way down the hill towards my destination. I bear the tension of much trepidation of my reception on my broad shoulders, as well as the discomfort of my left big toe. Spring flowers sway in the gently cooling evening breeze, rooted into earthen pots and wooden tubs along the outside walls and a garland of late daffodils surround the welcoming open doorway, reminding me of my distant home.

I walk inside the great hall of the inn. There are fresh reeds strewn on the earthen floor, with stone flags near the great fire against one wall, stacks of firewood ready to replenish the roaring blaze to chase away the cooling air as the sun readies itself to drop behind the western hills. Compared with the low bright late-afternoon sunset, my ancient eyes take some time to adjust to the ambient glow from the rushlights that illuminate the hall within.

“Will!” cries Robin, his tall, gangling form rises from a settle near the fireplace and advances toward me, “Come, I will take you up to your chamber. I sent your baggage up with a trusted servant directly upon my arrival. Are you thirsty and hungry?”

“I am still a little thirsty, Robin, thank you. It’s dusty on that road. But just a little water will suffice for now, I assure you.”

Clearly the boy messenger was not reporting back to Will, I am certain he would have met me by the doorway if he knew I was coming down the hill directly. My thoughts turn to the Lady Alwen once more, as they ever do, ever will, until we settle the ambiguous state of our affairs for once and for all.

“I will have a jug of sweet fresh drinking water sent up, Will,” the youth smiles, developing into the perfect host, “A bath is ready to be drawn for you, with hot water being prepared and I have laid out some clean fresh robes on the bed for you. Wait, you are limping, sir, are you hurt?”

“No, Robin, my old boots have just stepped a league too far and have given out, my toe is a little sore, that is all.”

“When you get to your chamber I’ll take your worn out boots and send for the cobbler. You would have passed his workshop next to the church. He will fashion you a fair copy by the morrow’s dawn.”

“No, Robin, they can easily be repaired during tomorrow. I fear that the workshop is presently shut up for the night.”

“Nonsense, Will, the cobbler is enjoying his very first ale in the hall downstairs. I will despatch him with your boots to effect a decent repair immediately and fashion a copy while about it in the finest Moorish leather, otherwise he will not get his accustomed skinful this eve nor any other!”

“Thank you, Robin, you are too kind, lay on to my chamber then.”

I cannot help but chuckle at the enthusiasm of youth, who believe anything is possible. I take a chance as he turns his back though, to glance around the room. No sign of Alwen, thanks be to heaven. If the Lady had any inkling that it was her old husband Archer who was in attendance and not this other infamous archer Will Bowman, the woman’s curiosity would know no bounds. At this time of the early evening she will be in the kitchens supervising the preparation of the main meal. I take a deep breath, sigh with relief, and hobble after my young host.

Robin leads the way up a grand new-made oaken stairway, the like of which I have never seen outside of the largest city, leading to the first floor galleries. Then we traverse a long passage into a new-built part of this old inn, before entering a large well-appointed bedchamber. At the far end of the room, a huge high bed is covered in furs and deep pillows, with rich dark red brocade curtains around it to keep at bay unwelcome debilitating draughts. On the bed is spread a cream linen bed smock, next to fresh white linen under- and over-shirts and a fine pair of dark brown woollen breeches. On the floor lay a pair of kid slippers, provided for my comfort.

All around the room are lit white beeswax candles, throwing clear bright smokeless light across the room. The very walls are covered in rich tapestries, the waxed and polished oak floorboards strewn with divers rugs and woven wool carpets.

This inn is like no other I have stayed in, if this is the quality of but one of its bedchambers. A prince or cardinal could not have found a better welcome. A roaring fire in the grate, supplied with a stone-faced chimney on one wall is blazing away, fuelled by coal. This is a fire fit for a king surely, rather than an inveterate fashioner of even the very best of longbows.

In one corner of the chamber, with its own sheltering curtains swept aside to reveal, sits a wooden tub bath which even now is being filled by a succession of smiling maids carrying jugs of steaming water.

A gnarled old male servant arrives then with a jug of cool fresh-drawn water and a cup fashioned from incised crystal glass, the like of which I have heard spake of by tellers of tall tales but never seen before, pouring me a measure which I drain gratefully. I hand the glass cup back to the servant gingerly, the breakage of which I would have to work until I died to repay. He acknowledges my thanks with a simple wordless nod and departs. I assume he may be deaf and dumb.

The bath duly drawn and filled, the maids file out the door with their empty jugs for the last time, giggling like children as they pass. Robin’s smile of pride at his inn’s overwhelming hospitality is a backlit stained glass window to behold.

He pulls the curtains close to around the tub and urges me to get my distressed boots off. He asks me to go behind the curtain and pass out my soiled clothes, which he promises he will have clean and hot iron pressed before cock’s first crow. Behind those thick cushioning curtains, the still air is already steamy and warm, the water hot and inviting, real soft soap in a dish set on a three-legged stool next to the steaming bath.

“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. The smile crinkles around 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 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, drawn 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 wedding celebration?” I stutter, “One that required my particular attendance as a competitor. So what is this trickery all about? Surely what can be my involvement, 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 gently 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.”