Chapter 32: Old Score

(Sir William Archer narrates)

I cannot help but stare at John of Wakefield as he dies in front of my eyes. I felt sure I had killed him as soon as my dart left my heavy longbow, but there, before my arrow even struck, my enemy was already dead. I saw the other arrow hit, a familiar shaft that my son Robin made over the winter months, one that flew straight and true, even if in his haste his aim was a little off.

But when my eye follows my imaginary flight line from human target to bow, I am amazed to see Robin fire that amazing arrow from astride a huge moving horse, as if it was his preferred stance of choice. How choked my throat is with emotion, my son safe and home again! How much, over the recent days of worry about plague, Alwen and Robin, I have had to seal in a well sealed stoppered water skin containing a well of emotion inside my heart. To know he is safe almost brings me to tears. To see him fire a wonder shot as if that ancient bow was a part of him, will be an image I will treasure all my days.

And, even though my hands instinctively bent another shaft on my bow and securely nocked it on the nocking knot on my bow, then a third arrow hits Wakefield before he can even begin to drop dead to the floor. I only see it in my periphery vision, the corner of my eye, as I focus on the girl, not a woman but a girl, alike Robin in maturity, yet a consummate artist with a bow and arrow, also astride a giant horse that she’d have to shin halfway up a tree to mount. With her pale face and hair as red as sunset and displayed as a glowing frame around her face like a mini-peacock, she looks stunning.

Alwen! How fares Alwen? I turn. Between me and my beloved, who is now standing, free of her bonds, stands another black horse with its black clad knight. He has completed his unhelming, and my King, Henry of England is revealed, calling upon all who is treacherous this day to lay down their arms and plead for mercy.

Now he calls directly to me, “Your sword, man, behind you!”

As I turn, I step forward with my left foot towards the inn, to ensure my feet do not foul in the floor length cloak I wore to disguise my armament, and draw my sword in an arc. I see the glint of sun on tempered blade as it chops down toward my head, and threw myself further forward by pushing with both feet on the ground. I can feel the wind from the passing stroke of the blade as it passes a hair’s breadth by me, while my right arm arcs around and rakes my assailant from groin to shoulder, but the blade skids harmlessly off his chain mail coat.

We square up. I slip the heavy cloak from my shoulders and step away from it puddling on the floor, while keeping a sword and a half length away from Lord Wellock. He must have removed his helm earlier, but he was covered neck to toe and down to his metal gauntlets in mail, while I had no armour at all.

Around us I can hear battle still rage, but between us is still but for the rage I feel coursing through him. I remain cool as ice, blanking out all concerns other than my mantra that I can only fight one battle, one contest, one man, at a time.

He blows, while I breath shallow, easy, alert for any hint of movement, assessing how he holds his blade, the tightness of his grip, the tightness in his shoulders, the circles he describes with the thin dagger in his left hand. As I had stepped to the left when discarding my cloak I take another step that way, followed immediately by another, decisive and determined, my knees bent, ready to react to an attack or feint, and ready to initiate if and when I choose.