Chapter 6: The Tournament

A BOY must’ve been waiting, listening outside my room for me to rise, because I am no sooner awake than a string of maids arrive with my cleaned and pressed garments, repaired boots, hot water to wash with and hot fluffy linen towels to dry my stiff ancient body. I am impressed.

In the hall, Jack and Robert report that nothing untoward has happened overnight. Mounted guards have been posted at each end of the main road through the village, to warn of the approach of the King and his retinue. Still no sign of my lovely wife, though I stoop not to make enquiry. It is as if she has disappeared from the inn, perhaps already residing in the comfort of her Lord’s manor house.

The early rounds of the various contests are due to begin at noon, with both Robin and I joining a lively throng enticed to the various contests.

Firstly there is the ground marked out on the green for shooting at a standing target. Second is shooting at a moving target dropped from a tower about eight feet tall, which carpenters are still putting the finishing touches unto. Third is five small targets already placed in a tree, the task for all five targets to be hit. Fourth is a distance shot, to wring the very limit out of an arrow. The fifth competition will take place on the second day, consisting of the top three finishers in all the competitions competing in the four disciplines with the aiming at the distant straw target to finish off the event.

I walk around the event arena nodding at some of the contestants, many of whom were at the shire town just a day earlier. Is it me, or does yesterday seem so long ago?

Both Robin and I ease through the opening rounds for the standing target, the drop and the five in the tree, but Robin misses out on the distance shot, unable to get all three of his arrows over the rope lying at the far end of the common field, with his lighter bow. I manage that easily enough. The next rounds follow in the afternoon.

Early in the afternoon, the King arrives. We did have about an hour’s warning as he called into the shire town castle first and I had had one of the Reeve’s men ride back there in the morning. The King then rode through the village up to the manor house but it was still shut up for the winter.

My assumption of Alwen’s place of haven has turned out to be misplaced. Not that I have been in search of her, but I believe in being aware of where my enemies are. I assume the Lord of the Manor spends his winter intimate to his French vineyards. Finding no access to the manor house the King came back down to the village and joined the throng on the green enjoying the sport. I am informed of his arrival but am still competing.

By the time we finish the rounds, the King knows who I am. He has already spoken at length to Jack Moor and instructed the Royal Clerk to examined both of the ledgers with Moor. To my surprise the King slaps me heartily on the back and we walk back to the inn, the only place in the area able to accommodate his retinue. Robert and the rest of the former Reeve’s men head back to the Castle, leaving Jack behind in case the King requires further to question him about what financial chicanery the Reeve had been getting up to.

The fair Alwen and Robin are in the Hall when we arrive and welcome the King to eat at the head of the table.

Robin whispers to me that regrettably I have lost my bedchamber, the King will have that. However, Robin says with a cheerful grin, that I will be bunking in with him while the King resides at the Inn.

I am happy with the change of chambers but quietly resolve to leave the vicinity the very moment the contest finishes.

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The dawn brings on the spectacle of the conclusion to the contest. Most of those eliminated the previous day remain to watch the event. Two- and four-wheeled wagons bring more folk from the shire town and the villages in between, quite a draw. The ale flows free and plenty, the inn seems to have an inexhaustible supply.

The King also remains to see out the contest’s conclusion.

The competition runs in the same order as previously, with Robin winning the straight target, using the light bow I have now given him as his own to keep. I finished second in that contest.

I won the drop final round with Robin finishing third. Another archer won the five targets in the tree, I came second and Robin was down in around sixth. Robin wasn’t in the final of the distance, but I won that by a significant margin, with a light arrow shaft and heavy arrow point fired at a lower trajectory than most were able to manage.

Robin and I are both in the grand final, which is a straight shoot at a half-sized target, which is a long way down the village common field. There are eight archers in that final round. Alwen, I notice, comes down to watch the final, sitting to the right-hand side of his majesty the King.

I remember now that the King’s only son died by drowning two months ago and he lost his wife the year before. The news of the Crown Prince’s demise had not yet reached this corner of England. The thought occurs to me that he might be looking for female company, not necessarily a wife, such would have to be a princess or at least the widow of a duke.

Let the absent Lord worry about Alwen’s virtue, I decide, I am long past such concerns.

The final is close, with myself, Robin and the archer from Wakefield too close to separate. The three of us shoot off again, with the target moved back another thirty paces. This is too much for Wakefield, he hits the bull only once. Robin fires off next and gets two in the bull and one in the ring next to it. I manage to get all three in the bull. We troop back to the inn for the celebration and presentation of purses.

The King has me sit at the top table at his right hand for the evening meal, with Father Andrew on his left. I have never seen a man drink so much during that meal as he does and remain upright. I moderate my own consumption, but it is difficult to remain out of the contest. Father Andrew also seems to have a prodigious capacity for Alwen’s finest ales, but then he has had much time to become accustomed.

“Well, Will,” his Majesty says, slapping me heartily on my back as all around bar us three worthies slump asleep where they sit, “How would you like to be appointed my Shire Reeve for this fine county?” He slaps me on the back again, laughing.

“Surely, Sire, you jest,” I protest, “I only took charge of the old Reeve’s men at their request, there was no one else at hand they felt confidence in. I need to return to my own country.”

“Have you not heard Will, that to refuse the King such a request would be very much to a subject’s detriment?”

“I have heard such, Sire,” I grin ruefully, not knowing how far the playfulness of a King almost in his cups will go, “I am but a humble archer and not even a subject of England.”

“You have done well, Will, and it will save me much time and worry trying to appoint another, one who would be extremely unlikely to be as honest as yourself. Your good clerk Moor has shown that much of what was stolen from the Treasury this year is still locked up safe in the castle, so I will go with my retinue to collect that coin upon the morrow.

“Don’t worry about Sir Giles’ widow and children, I will ensure they are not left prided short. I’m due in Devon late in the summer and I will call upon them to assure them of my continued protection.”

The King bent his great head down to mine, “As for you William Archer, you are not just an archer as you so fervently attest. A little bird tells me that you are lately appointed the Lord of this Manor and have invested a fortune into improving its facilities. I am most impressed with the roads and this fine inn, the ale of which is the finest I have tasted, even better than the wine from my own Angevin vineyards.”

“I can assure you, Sire, that is an extreme misrepresentation,” I protest, “I have no stake at all in this inn nor any of its environs, and as for the Lord of the Manor, I believe he is the one which hath designs on my former wife.”

Trouble with drinking ale in quantity is that it makes mouths run away with thoughts best kept within the barrel-head, my mouth has runneth full pelt.

“Ha!” yells the venerable Father, who I had thought near passed out, “The cat is out of the bag at last, Will! I wondered how long it would be. Ha Ha! Will, my son, you are indeed Lord of this Manor and have been since the end of March.”