Chapter 35: The Smooth Field

(Robin of Oaklea narrates three years later, at Michaelmas Fayre, London Fields, 29 September, the Year of Our Lord 1125)

I stiffen as the black cloaked friar passes me. Although I have never met this particular monk, it appears he knows me, or knows enough of who I am to recognise me. Our eyes meet briefly, and he looks down. My eyes follow his. He flashes the palm of his left hand to me briefly. It is painted in red ochre, it is a sign, and not one I was expecting.

He moves on without a backward glance, without a single break his stride. Soon he is lost in the crowd, assembling eagerly to witness the archery event on what the locals hereabout London Town call the Smooth Field.

I make no sudden movements, but continue to stand where I was waiting for time to pass. No one observing me must know I have received a message. Slowly, I fade into the shadow of the London Wall behind me, forsaking the noonday sun which has been warming me. There, from the dark shadows I look around, but see no-one obviously observing me. I strap both my quivers to my waist, pick up my bag and my longbow, and stride out into the sunshine, heading away from the newly-built walls of the St Bartholomew’s Priory next to the London Wall near Aldersgate. Within moments I am into the Smooth Field, joining the mass of unwashed humanity heading onto the grassland, where the final rounds of the richest archery tournament in the realm, the highlight of the week long Fayre, was to be held.

I wonder why I was warned and why I was under some observation, and by whom, as I walk.

I am nobody in these parts, of course, a humble archer from the distant West Midlands. One who talks with an accent that London folk find as strange and amusing, no doubt, as I find theirs be. If I am to be robbed, it will not be now. Presently, I have few coins and am relying on my winnings at the tournament to pay the tariff that I have on credit with the landlord of The Goat Inn in Long Lane, where I have stayed in a small single room and dined these last three days. The landlord had accepted me with a nod on seeing the scrap of script with the red hand I had been given days before. He escorted me without a word to the quiet empty room even though the inn was otherwise heaving with crowded guests attracted by the last great public Fayre of the year.

I regularly encounter Rebecca’s red hand and black cowled Friars. They have insinuated into my travels ever since I resumed touring the tourneys last year, after completing my bowmaking apprenticeship. The first one I saw was Brother Cleric Michael, the huge red-haired friar. He joined me on the road after I won my first tournament on my own. With him I exchanged most of my fat prize purse for a scrip of parchment. I knew him, a former brother in arms. I trusted him with my life, so why not my coin when he advised that I do so? I remember him saying that it was was unwise for a lone man on the road with so heavy a pocket, and I said the same back to him.

“And what makes ye think I am alone, Master Robin?” the brother had replied with a twinkle in his eye.

And it is true, monasteries and convents abound, whether they be in city, town and countryside, with well-trod trade routes betwixt. And you never see a poor monastery or a skinny monk, do you?

But how odd, though, the strange marriage of the cross, the rosary and the red hand symbol of the Jewish banker? A harmony desired in Heavens of the same God, no doubt, but vigorously denied within our earthly shires and from church pulpits.

From time to time a Friar, known or unknown to me, will hand me a sealed parchment from Rebecca, informing me of the value of my investments. As at Lincoln the week before last, word came that I now owned a virgate of land in Sherbourne, Dorsetshire, sited betwixt priory and the manor which will become more valuable as desired for future expansion by both. Also, I own two oxgangs in the outer environs of the City of York, fresh planted with beans and oats by my tenants and set for a fair return.

Such things are not important to me, though. It is a long season away and I am eager for pleasant family company, so wish to be home in Oaklea before Lucifer’s Day dawns. I hope these present attentions do naught to delay me in my intentions and keep me from the half-siblings I miss so much.

This tournament is the biggest I have ever been involved in. Usually dozens of archers participate in towns and villages. But here, so close to the mighty city of London that applause echoes off its very walls, there must be a thousand or more who started their darts to fly at the outset three days ago. In the early rounds I was pitted against eleven other archers at the same time, all of us aline, firing off a dozen arrows apiece. Only one of the twelve, the one with the least misses, going through to the next round. Then eight archers, again all firing side by side; then six; and yesterday we were in lines of four, when bulls were far more common than outers.

Today, the final day, we are down to the last eight archers, each of us unbested by those we’ve been matched with in the prior two days. Now we are to be paired off, one against the other, loosening twelve shafts apiece to decide the best. And only the best proceeds to the final four, before the last pair settle who wins the fattest purse. At least I will have a purse of sorts, all the last eight win something, but whether ‘tis enough to satisfy the landlord of The Goat Inn, is another matter.

The embroidered ribbon tied round my left wrist signifies my status as a competitor and the Tower Guards, employed to keep order, let me through to the field. I am early. My father always advises waiting until called, preferably out of sight of other archers. That had been my intention, but the unknown Friar disturbed my concentration and made me move too soon.

The Archer Field Sergeant nods to me in recognition as I put down my bag. He waves me to come up to the mark. We wait, but only for a minute at most before my opponent stands next to me on my left.

He is shorter than me by a palm of my hand at least, and a lot slighter of build. I glance at him briefly, his head almost completely covered by a huge floppy beret, but my eyes are irresistibly drawn to a large boil on his nose, red and angry looking. Boils are common, particularly in the city, where fresh water to wash in is expensive and hard to come by. I look away. I concentrate on our respective targets, one the left for my opponent and mine on the right. I check on the wind about me and any obvious deviation down the field, indicated by flags and bunting. It is a lovely late September day and all look forward to the sport.

“To the mark, young sirs,” the sergeant calls, although we are both only a few inches from where we need to be. Almost as one, we dequiver and nock our arrows and draw the bowstring back to our chins and we let fly our darts, both at the same time. Even the distance we are away from the targets, the sudden hush of the watching crowd enables us to hear the targets struck and see the Target Marshall wave a gold flag in each hand.