Chapter 2: Plague!

(Robin Oaklea, son of Will Archer, narrates)

I slept bad last night. ‘Twas not for the palliasse of good straw, stuffed fresh two nights since by my father’s insistence. No, it were well worth the quarter penny my father paid. Nor was it the noise in the bedchamber. My father snores at times when he turns on his back, but it is a comforting sound rather than disturbing. He worries about my sister Alwen and their coming child, which is understandable. My father never shared in my harvest, only the sowing. But I think I know my sister better than her husband does. I have never seen her so happy, both since her lover’s return and the blessing of their reunion. Why, she sings all day and bears the aches and pains of her swollen belly as if it were a burden that gives too much pleasure to ever put down. Is my lack of sleepiness down to being excited over my second win out of only three tournaments in my life? Or am I anxious over the next one that we ride to upon the morrow?

No, it were none of these trifles. I couldn’t sleep because I had witnessed the most arresting looking girl I have ever seen. She were a brown-eyed Angel with eyes that I could slip headlong into and drown, whether I wanted to or not.

I had gone outside the hall last night after the ale, that I had been drinking quite freely, suddenly went to my head. It was stronger and harsher tasting than the sweet dark half ale that Alwen fashions for the womenfolk and youths, though I thought I had been advisedly cautious in my imbibing. I had even switched to mead for a while, when I heard from a serving wench that a little honey wine was available.

It too has to be admitted, that the farmyard smell (and worse!) of some of my fellows in that hall had also been overpowering. I am used to having more fresh clean water drawn from our home wells in Oaklea than we could ever drink and Alwen has always insisted that we bathe and change our top and underclothes once a week, whether we felt the necessity to or not. And I was starting to scratch at my crawling skin almost as badly as one of the fellows sitting a little too close along the bench from I.

I remember sucking in the fresh cold night air and leaning onto a post holding up a sheltering roof over the entrance to the hall. I was starting to feel better, when a cart pulled up in a thunder of galloping hooves. The contraption had four beasts pulling, much alike the wagons used to haul lumber from the river or a heavy load of ale to the town. At the moment it stopped, a Lord stepped out, dressed in his finest furs, with a great broad sword swinging at his hip.

He dragged a girl, presumably his daughter, out of the wagon behind him. It were clear she weren’t a minded to ‘company him in anywhere near keen a fashion as he insisted. He tugged her out of the cart in his fury. She arrested her headlong fall with two tiny but long-fingered hands on the very post I leaned on, right in front of my eyes. We stood there eyeball to eyeball.

She stared at me with eyes that pleaded for help. Perhaps, I thought, she was going to be whipped by her assertive parent for some perceived insolence? I knew not. Her face was pale, as if in shock, her brown eyes gleaming in the glow of the lantern light above our heads, her hair like the glossy coat of a spring vixen.

I can see her image now, as I find dreams slipping away from me just before dawn. I awake early, unsettled. In dire need of air, I leave my father deep in his slumbers. He was drinking at the top table throughout the long night of feasting, and much of the younger, better ale found its way there. There were raised voices from the upper echelon, some in anger, over I know not what. These be hard times and the King’s tax collector, as well as peace officer for the county, isn’t always fêted. They may move from feast to feast. which appear gratis of tariff, but are rarely free of argument and attempted persuasion to lean towards the host’s favour.

It is cold but the air is still this morning. The mist lies thick above the surrounding fields, the wind has dropped to naught, unlike the freezing tumult of yestermorn. A slither of lighter sky hints along a line between the horizon and the cloud, a signalling promise of daylight to come. The hanging seaweed heralds the late arrival of a dry spring day to chase away the clinging winter chills of the night.

Through the still, quiet air I can hear hooves hammering the dusty stone road. Someone was riding hard and must have ridden the highway part way through the dark, the next town being half a night’s ride away. I watch for the rider through the mist, and a hazy form takes shape, the horse blowing hard, coming into focus first. I see him clearly now, the livery worn around his chest familiar, that of our very own Bartonshire. He is one of my father’s men. I know him, Richard of Eastwall. Here, there must be news from home!

I cannot help the first thought through my head, bring a mixture of joy and regret that cannot be readily reconciled without some guilt on my part. Perhaps I have been blessed early with a brother or sister, necessitating our swift return home. Whatever manner of sibling I might have, I care not, only that he or she be hale and hearty. However, I cannot help feel my disappointment to be leaving the archery circuit after winning a tournament only yesterday.

“Hail Dick,” I cry, “you come hot foot from Bartown I suppose, ‘tis my father you seek?”

“Aye, Rob,” Dick Eastwall replies, blowing almost as hard as his horse, the sweat pouring off both. “Stay thy hand though lad, we have plague at Bartown and I would scarce forgive my self if’n I pass it onto you or Sir William.”

“I’ll fetch him directly,” I say and run through the hall to find him. He is, however, already arisen, always a light sleeper, I dare say he has heard the rider come.

“Hail, Master Eastwall, how goes it?” Will Archer greets him from the doorway.

“It’s bad, Sire, all the town is afeared, full of the odour of sickness and death. Two children and five old folk have died in this first week and most of the rest are too ill to walk or fend for ‘emselves. The Mayor requests you come back now, my Lord, so Jack Moor sent me. He, he fears the worst, that all may be lost and the sickness spread beyond the environs of the town to the rest of the shire and then all England. I was told to deliver my message and return immediately and not get near a soul lest I spread the death to others.”

“Very well, Dick. Hold fire by the wall over there.” My father turns to me, “Fetch fresh water for both Dick and the horse, please, Robin. Leave it by the other end of the wall, do not get too close. Perhaps a pail of oats for the horse too, and I will fetch a platter of bread and cheese from the kitchen for Dick. Then we must get packed up, ready to return home immediately.”

I do his bidding of course. All who know my father feel his authority even if it had not been conferred on him by the King and the old Lord of our Manor. He has a calm way of taking charge that is effective and confident. Men will follow him to Hell if he asked them to. I watch him always and learn, an indentured apprentice in more ways than simply the art of making the finest bowcraft. Henry tells me that much of the respect the men have for William Archer is that he is never afraid to make a good decision, and that saves lives.