Chapter 5: The Shire Reeve

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 is bent, almost as much as one of my heavily strung bows, but with eyes that sparkle still 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.”

“Father, your garments are already washed but aren’t dry yet; I have some maids using hot irons on them, but it will be some time before they will be ready to wear. The cordwainer has also been despatched to his workshop with your boots and will return directly he is finished. Please, I beg of you father, stay at least until dawn and the fortification of an early breakfast tomorrow.” Robin looks pained. “I must return to the hall, father, our new guests need –”

“Of course,” I say, “Go, but pray return my clothes and boots as soon as you possibly can, I wish to leave at the earliest opportunity.”

The boy runs from the room, leaving me with Father Andrew.

“Priest,” I greet, and hold out a hand.

“Will Archer, my son,” he says, his voice and eye steady, though his proffered hand shakes a little, his grip is firm, “I have looked forward to this day for many a year, but these are troubled times.”

“They were even then, Father,” I find myself saying, “They ever are.”

“True, my son, very true,” the priest nods sagely, a smile plays on his lips, “I had hoped you would stay and fight for her. I prayed for that.”

“Hopes and prayers,” I reply, “Don’t always tot up to much, Father.”

“It depends on the prize you pray for, my son.”

“Some prizes are out of reach.”

Just then the chamber door flies open and three armed men burst in through the doorway, divers other men at arms in the doorway close behind them. The man in the front is short of stature and quite stout, about my age or perhaps a handful of years older. All are armed with swords and have their hands gripping the handles of their sheathed weapons.

“You, there!” shouts the stout man, “You must be Dame Alwen’s husband and you, priest, the only man who can identify him as such. So you will both be departing this world tonight!”

This is clearly the Shire Reeve, who has designs on the lovely Alwen. The fulfilment of that wish would certainly ruin any chance she has with the Lord of the Manor. I don’t care which of the two adherents she ends up but am certainly in no mood to be forced to disappear by fair means or foul by this fat dwarf.

The Reeve starts to draw his weapon. With my feet encased in the soft kid slippers, I lunge with my right foot and stamp hard with the sole of my foot on his hand that grips the sword handle, winding him at the same time. I grab his hair with my left hand and tug him sharply towards me, while with my right hand I grasp the handle of his sword and draw the short blade forth from its sheath, twisting the Reeve’s body round in front of me to provide a shield.

His men-at-arms are clearly shocked by the abrupt turnaround of events and react slowly to the new unforeseen circumstances. As I withdraw the sword from its scabbard, I check its balance. It’s a sword on the short side, to match the stature of the owner, but light and beautifully balanced. My original thought was to hold the sword up against the Reeve’s throat, but the two armed men in the room are slow in drawing their weapons, while the winded Reeve begins to recover, so I decide to attack while I still have a limited advantage of surprise.

I swing the sword at the man to the right, too quick for him to lift his guard or get out of the way and slash him deeply across the throat, while simultaneously pushing the Reeve into the man on the left. As the Reeve stumbles into him, the soldier lowers his guard and I am able to hack down onto him in the gap between his head and shoulder. He goes down instantly, the Reeve tumbling down on top of him.

There are two men competing with each other, trying to get in through the doorway. I stab the leading one in the belly. He continues to come forward and is impaled almost to the hilt, being pushed from behind. I push on, forcing the mortally wounded man back to block the doorway, preventing the next swordsman coming through. I am momentarily disarmed, as my sword is stuck in the dead man’s belly. I put up my left foot this time and kick at the corpse, while pulling on the sword with both hands. The sword comes free and the three soldiers behind the doorway see that I am rearmed, their leader and colleagues prone on the floor, and decide that retreat is better than attack, turn tail and run away down the corridor.

Father Andrew sits on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, moping his brow with a spotted kerchief. He appears to be all right. I turn my attention to the Reeve and roll him onto his back. He lays there prone, with the handle of his soldier’s dagger sticking out of his ample stomach. He’s not dead yet, but not too far from his inevitable demise.

I check out the other three: the one who inadvertently stabbed his master is already dead, the blade cut having cleaved through his neck and spine; his companion was very close to death, gargling his final breath through his sliced voice box; the broad one by the door wasn’t moving either, clearly stabbed through to his backbone. By the time I turn around after completing my inspections, the priest is on his knees delivering the last rites to the dying Reeve.

A noise at the doorway makes me turn, assuming the worst, but it is only Robin, come to see what fairs. He calmly takes in the whole of the scene in a glance, noting the bloodied sword still comfortably clutched at the ready in my hand.

“Are you hurt, father?” he enquires, more calmly than I would normally give credit to someone so young. He really is an extraordinary youth, a son any father, even a half-father like me, would be justified in being rightly proud of.

“No, Robin,” I reply, “Not a single scratch, Father Andrew also appears untouched.”

“Well, the Reeve is of this earthly kingdom no more,” says the Priest, speaking up for the first time since just prior to the debacle. “That neatly solves a problem,” he adds quietly, almost to himself.

Having risen from his seat and across to the Reeve’s body, he had completed the ritual of absolution. “Conveniently deceased I note by his own henchman, a fitting end for such a man as he. Very neat swordsmanship, sir,” he addresses me, “You have clearly had some experience with the broad blade?”

“Aye,” I reply, “A very little, though; I have commanded a band of archers on several campaigns and ... I acquired a blade more for encouragement than actual use in the field. When I could, though, I found time to practice, thinking it might be handy to do so. I was as surprised as you were that my muscles still remembered those exercises!”

“Sir, the three men you chased from your chamber are huddled with the rest in the hall.” spoke up Robin. “They may be plotting revenge, if not for their former master, than for their friends that lay slain.”

“How many are there?” I ask of him.

“A dozen, no more. They know the Reeve, their paymaster, has fallen. They are therefore uncertain what manner of man they face.”

“Then let me go talk to them,” I say.

“I’ll come with you, my son, testify that you were unarmed at the outset and that we both were threatened with the short-tailing of our lives,” speaks up the old priest, “The Almighty Himself surely allows you to defend yourself when such as the Shire Reeve here declares openly that he is about to murder you!”

“I’ll descend first and see if they have resolved to attack or retreat,” says Robin.

“Good lad,” I say, knowing full well that the soldiers would know nothing of our family connection. To them I am but a troublesome guest that the Reeve had some prior issue to resolve. Robin runs off down the passage towards the Hall.

My bow and quiver are by the bed, part of my light luggage that I brought to the inn with me. I bend down and undo the Shire Reeve’s belt and unthread his sword scabbard; his belt was useless for my purpose, it would fit twice if not thrice about my middle. Once affixed onto my thin quiver belt, I fasten it and slip the blade back home, after cleaning it to my satisfaction upon the deceased’s tunic. I gather up my bow, bend the shaft and loop over the string, finally drawing an arrow from the quiver, nocking it, fit to fire.