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    The Archer
    The Archer
    The Archer
    Ebook76 pages51 minutes

    The Archer

    By Tony Spencer

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    About this ebook

    Set in the English Middle Ages, Will the longbow maker and fletcher sells his wares in the shire market towns, taking part in the archery competitions to publicise his craft, earning more from wagers than prizes. Recently lost his banker with all his savings confiscated by the English crown, he is late leaving his Welsh village, reduced to visiting a border county he has long shunned. At the last fair of early spring he sees an ancient bow which reminds him of his long-lost bride.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTony Spencer
    Release dateDec 6, 2013
    ISBN9781311777676
    The Archer
    Author

    Tony Spencer

    Have published 34 books since 1998, one out of print, 22 available on Smashwords, 6 on Wattpad and 5 on Amazon. I started writing fiction in 2012. I brought out a glut of little books as soon as I realised self publishing was an option, but now I am settling down to produce one novel and a collection of other stories each year. A grandfather of three angels, happily married for 42 years to another angel, living in Hampshire, England, about 35 miles west of London. I had worked for over 40 years as a printer and proofreader but retired in 2015 and hoping to spend more time writing. Also an editor of a community magazine, football programmes and have written weekly sports reports now for almost 20 years in local newspapers. Now concentrating on romantic fiction, mostly short stories, with occasional novellas and novels. Proud to be a member of the KCEditions independent publishing house of Canada.

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      Book preview

      The Archer - Tony Spencer

      The Archer

      Tony Spencer

      Published by Tony Spencer at Smashwords

      Copyright © 2013 Tony Spencer

      Cover photo © Iuril Konoval 2013. Licensed from Shutterstock.

      Smashword Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      And the next bowman to shoot at the butt is William Fletcher, who came ninth and fifth in the first and second rounds. Please show him your encouragement, one and all.

      There is a light round of applause in reply to the Town Crier's booming announcement and one or two slight insults arise from a group of locals, who have clearly partaken of more flagons of ale or mead than is wise so soon past the forenoon, before I step up to the oche. I pull a light-tipped target arrow from my worn leather belt quiver and notch it into the taut string of my tall Welsh longbow.

      I glance around the throng gathered at the archery field just outside the town walls. This is the main town of this shire but it seemed smaller, poorer, meaner than it had last time I came through. It has been five, no six years since I was here in this market town last and won that particular year's contest. I was known by another name then, and no-one here knows or has thus far acknowledged that they recognise me.

      The circular straw-stuffed target, with its red-painted outer and inner circles, gold centre, with bright white lime wash daubed betwixt, has been moved a further twenty paces away down the field. Even my rheumy old eyes can see the target quite clearly in the cloudless early May afternoon sunshine. There is a slight breeze, running from left to right, but I adjust my aim allowing for those light airs and elevate enough to take account of the longer distance. I draw my bow string comfortably up to the greying three-day-old whiskers on my chin, before letting the arrow fly. It arcs in flight and hits the target on the outer circle, which is good enough for my purposes. Then I loose my final two shots, both very slight improvements, which I am sure will edge me into the final round upon the morrow. I hope by my efforts to conceal my talents without raising too many concerns from the local favourites, the wager mongers or the throng gathering to see the spectacle, now that the average archers and worse have been winnowed from the assembly by the earlier rounds.

      The town is a small poor one, a city once that has fallen on hard times, and the reduced archery purse on offer is in proportion to the present size and economic potential of the area. It has a noisy noisome farmer's market both today and the morrow, thus providing a large throng with an interest in the present competition. A rude-constructed and dilapidated stone motte and bailey stands on a rise by a bend in the river in which the town nestles. A group of soldiers from the castle have descended to watch the competition and jeer at the competitors. They are a ragtag outfit, wearing a variety of old and ill-fitting armour and I presume their sheathed weapons are likely to be equally unimpressive. They make no attempt to marshal the unruly crowd; clearly no-one of any quality seems to be in authority here.

      I decide I will not come this way again. This shire has always been a problem for me; I find I am drawn back here, time and time again, more times than I care to admit even unto myself, which only adds to my eternal torment. Loneliness tears at my heart like a starving dog worrying a flesh-picked hambone.

      I turn my attention back to the field and closely watch the remaining contestants as they complete the last round of the day, the penultimate round of the main contest, watching with as casual and uninterested an air as I can maintain. I have the measure of the prior shooters to me, mostly locals, judging from the ribaldry of the crowd and casual exchange of nicknames. I recognise two old mercenaries, who are also playing the same tentative and watching game that I am. They try to ignore me as I do them. They are likely where my competition lies.

      A further entrant in the contest is a spare-framed lanky youngster, a stranger to the town like us veterans, without any rapport with the crowd. The youth is clearly trying his best and not quite achieving the return appropriate to his efforts. I find my attention drawn to him. He looks like a nice lad, not as boldly disrespectful as the local town boys who have been given far more rope than is good for them. The gangly youth holds a vintage longbow, one far too powerful for him; his belly needs to thicken up and relieve a notch or two on his belt before he will be able to realise that bow's full potential. The ancient bow itself certainly intrigues me, it seems it hath a familiar look about it.

      When the round ends and the survivors for tomorrow's final round are announced by the Crier, I garner up my accoutrements and watch a different round of shooting, this time reserved for the younger boys of the town, while the crowd ebbs away, no doubt to the inns and eating houses dotted around the stinking market. It is now that the gangly beanpole introduces himself to me.

      Robert of the parish of Oaklea in the west of this fair shire, he declares seriously, puffing out his chest with pride, But everyone at home calls me Robin, he finishes his introduction with a disarmingly shy boyish grin.

      Good afternoon to you, young Robin of Oaklea, I reply with an easy smile. I try not to betray my inner emotions as the name of his parish careens through my head like the flooding waters of a collapsing dam.

      I concentrate on the youth, only the youth, with the cold calm I learned under fire in war: no matter how huge the horde of

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