Chapter 11: More Help

(Lady Alwen Archer of Oaklea, pregnant wife of Will Archer, narrates)

I feel that I have everything within my power that I am able to do under control. I can do no more. What I have no influence over I leave to God or to man to do what is best.

My William is as safe where he is in his Castle, as he could be anywhere. I do wish he was here with me to hold for mutual comfort, of course, but I realise that he could not rest here if he was prevented from doing his sworn duty to King and the people he is charged to care for. I pray that in good time he returns to me whole and at ease in his mind. I know Will is no man of God. But he has never decried my faith. He says he is glad of it as it is a comfort to me during his long absences, but he has never had his “Road to Damascus” and has seen too much hell on his own path to believe so trustingly as I do in the Almighty. He humours me, by attending Mass on Sundays and holy days as duty demands, and treats passing clergy with respect. He particularly appreciates and honours his deep friendship with Father Andrew as man to man, much as his friendship that was with the Jew Jacob, bless his soul, just as I love Rebecca, the daughter of Jacob as a dear friend and comforting correspondent who is my only other confident with regard to the depth of feelings I hold, I will always hold for dear William.

Father Andrew has passed on my letter to Will this morning, which tells him how much love I feel for him, have always felt for him and will continue to for rest of my life and the everlasting life to follow. I have told him in my letter that I know he cannot convey his feelings to me in like manner in case his parchment passes on the deadly ailment and becomes the instrument of my and our unborn child’s deaths. But he knows that I endure without him in the certain knowledge that his love for me is just as powerful and eternal.

Upon his return, Father Andrew assures me that Will is well and has everything in place to contain the sickness. Some have died but they are mercifully few. They are mainly old and infirm plus some sickly children from the poor riverside of the town, where the tenements are crowded and damp. It is there that the affliction has taken its strongest grip. The illnesses suffered in other parts of the town appear to have caught it by visiting the sick quarter and bringing the malady back to their own families. Now Will has divided the town with internal pickets to avoid further incursions by the devilish vapours that are so deadly. They are burning all the firewood they can lay their hands on to boil the water for drinking and cleaning, as this seems effective and fewer townsfolk seem to be succumbing to the fever, immediately after the first day that Will has returned to take charge.

I am grateful that Robin is away from danger doing what he loves to do without a single care in the world, firing darts into a target. I am happy that he is in company with the dependable Henry Small, to see he is safe, as well as keep his friend Hugh out of mischief. Robin practices every day, and has done so since he made his own bow and arrows out of scraps and saplings, copying the short bows most of the mounted men from the castle and hunters used at that time. When he was about 12, helping me clear out the lumber room, we found that old bow that I had hidden from my mother all those years ago, having sold all the rest. He fell onto it like it was manna from heaven. He held it up to the tiny light from the attic window, as if he was in awe of it. He was in raptures, describing the perfect symmetry of heartwood and sapwood, the smooth feel of the finish, the majestic height, taller than any tall man he knew. And he even marvelled at the bow string, that had been carefully rolled and tied by a thread to the bow which it fitted so it wouldn’t be lost. It was finer and smoother than any flaxen string he had made for himself, with extra threads woven in where strength was needed, where it attached to the bow and the nocking point. There was even a knot in the string to indicate the nocking point so that the archer could feel it without taking his eye off his target. When he unravelled the string, it took all our combined strength to string it to the bow, the tension on the bow remarkable. “Why not try an arrow or two, Will?” I had ventured, desiring even myself to see this wonderful vibrant almost alive thing in action, but he looked at me shaking his head as if I had casually asked him to catch a star to light up the hall, “my arrows are eighteen inches long, Alwen, this bow takes at least 30 inch or 36 inch arrows. Though I doubt I have the strength to even draw it. I need to make new arrows before I can use it.”

I remember smiling at the excitement in his youthful face, as from where they were well hid, I pulled a quiver full of arrows, asking, “do you think these might do by any chance?”