Archer

by Jacky Gray

  ‘What’s wrong Archer? Don’t tell me you weren’t enjoying all the attention?’ Patricia’s expression was innocence itself.

  ‘Not one bit. It was bad enough earlier with just the Worthies, but now there’s everyone else as well.’

  He saw Ganieda and Sedge approaching the table and felt his heartbeat quicken all over again at their stern expressions.

  ‘Well young man, you have some explaining to do. I think you need to come home and tell us which parts of that tale were true and which were mere romance.’

  ‘I was hoping to stay a while longer. Fletch has asked Bethia to jump the bonfire with him.’ Archer was stricken with horror at the idea of leaving so early.

  ‘You should have thought of that when you were out roaming the countryside picking fights with Renegates.’

  ‘When I think how we let you stay over in Oxford for all those weeks.’ Sedge’s tone was serious. ‘Anything could have happened and you wouldn’t have told us.’

  Ganieda shook her head gravely. ‘I think I cannot let him out of my sight until he has his medal of majority. Firing an arrow through an apple indeed.’

  ‘Maybe he should have come as William Tell.’

  ‘I do not think he would have won, then.’

  ‘And I do not think I can keep this up any longer, my cheeks are starting to hurt.’

  Finally, it got through that they were merely teasing as they both broke into large smiles. Sedge explained how Doug had sought him out and asked their permission to sing the song today, after Archer’s reluctance in the Oxford senior guild.

  ‘So you don’t mind, then?’

  ‘Why should we mind?’

  ‘Because I didn’t tell you everything.’

  ‘I can remember doing things my parents would not have approved of when I was not much older than you.’ Sedge’s face twinkled with mischief.

  ‘But young people are growing up much faster these days; look at all those girls dancing. That would not have happened until the seniors in my day.’ Ganieda’s expression held wistful memories.

  ‘So I’m not in trouble with the council?’ Archer dared to hope.

  ‘What for? Is there some part of the tale not in the song? I do not see how escaping from Renegates with skill and cunning could be against any rulings.’

  ‘No, they told it much as it happened, except Finn and Fletch played a far greater part.’

  ‘So why would you be in trouble with the council?’

  ‘The next night we went with Leathan to the senior guild even though we were juniors.’

  ‘But you went as his guests?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then there is no problem.’

  ‘Great. So I can stay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you’re going now, would you mind taking my bow back please?’

  ‘Certainly. Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably still with the craft display. Wait here, I’ll be back in a trice.’

  When he got to the display table, only a few things remained; Professor Kenryk was storing them in a large chest. Archer’s bow wasn’t among them, harking back to his broken garland. He started searching under the table, a sinking feeling lurching in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Lost something Archer?’

  ‘My bow. One of the craft entries.’

  ‘I know, an excellent work. Probably would have won if you were not already the king.’

  ‘You haven’t seen it have you?’

  ‘Yes. Edlyn came to get his and said he would take it to you. He must have missed you.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago. He said you were down by the bonfire. You must have passed him on your way back; maybe you used a different route.’

  Archer knew it could only mean one thing. He ran like a startled deer, paying no attention to the concerned professor’s question if everything was all right.

  27 Apprentice

  ‘The first thing you have to do is select a good stave. These have been drying out for nearly two years now, so they should be ready.’ Bowman picked up a stave, balanced it in his hands then replaced it in the stack.

  ‘Two years? Why don’t you simply put them in the hot box and cook them for a few days?’ It seemed an obvious shortcut to Archer.

  ‘They would be dried out, but they wouldn’t be properly seasoned. The hot box makes the wood shrink unevenly so it cracks and loses the rich colour. We are experimenting with boiling the wood first and that’s where you can help, with the extra testing.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘So back to your bow. When you choose the stave, it’s not about how good-looking it is. If it’s going to be doing right by you for the rest of your life, you’ve got to be compatible. Bit like a woman really.’ He grinned and pointed to the stack. ‘Pick one up. See if it sings to you.’

  ‘You don’t really mean it has to sing to me.’

  ‘Not exactly singing. But if a stave trembles when I hold it in my hands, I know it will make a good bow for me.’

  Archer looked doubtful and Bowman shrugged. ‘It’s not the same for everyone and not every stave does it. If you have the mark of a true bowyer, you will make the connection with the right stave. Try this one.’

  ‘Don’t I need gloves?’

  ‘Not just to hold it for a few seconds, they’ve all been oiled to seal them. Just be sure to wash your hands at the end.’

  Archer picked the first one up and held it in both hands for ten seconds. Nothing happened. Bowman took it off him. ‘No, nothing on this one. Try the next.’

  After the fifth, Archer was convinced this was merely a tease, but he dropped the next one like a cake hot from the oven.

  Bowman caught it, chuckling. ‘You felt something didn’t you? What happened?’

  ‘It didn’t exactly tremble. It felt warm, like it had been next to a fire.’

  ‘It’s not warm, but I can feel a tremble. Take hold again for three seconds. Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt you, I promise.’

  He grasped it with both hands and again it tingled with warmth. It didn’t actually get hot, even after seven seconds. He put it to one side and tried the rest of the batch. Whilst the last one gave a tiny tingle, it was nothing like as much as the other stave. Archer passed it to Bowman.

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t feel anything on this one, but you could use it to practise on. In fact you’ll get lots of practice before I’ll let you anywhere near these two. You can take them as part of your wages for the work you’ll be doing here.’

  Over the next two weeks, Archer spent time watching every part of the process, working with the most expert craftsmen in Oxford, possibly in the land. He learnt how to remove the bark without scoring through the thin layer of buttery yellow sapwood. Then the tricks in trimming away the unwanted orange heartwood used for the belly. At this stage, the ends of the bow were sealed with wax, and it rested in the hot box for an hour. This allowed the wood to settle into shape before the next level of cutting to shape, known as tillering. Again, Archer was privileged to work with the best in the land, a short, lively man known as Till. He had every bit of Bowman’s passion and similar quirks.

  ‘See Bowman says the staffs sing to him, but mine speak to me. Each one tells me exactly what sort of bow it wants to be. Most of ’em are ’appy to take on the plain shape of the noble longbow, but every so often a cheeky little staff comes along with higher ambitions.’

  Archer didn’t know how to react to the idea of wood talking, but after the way the staves had become warm in his hand, he was ready to listen to anything these master craftsmen had to say. ‘You mean each stave can be carved in a certain shape following its own natural curve.’

  ‘It’s more than that. When I shape a staff, I don’t try to make it go in a way it doesn’t want to go. It’ll only fight me when I’m doing it, then it’ll snap as soon as I attach a bow string, just to show me it won’t be told. Never forget that a piece o
f wood is a living thing, you must treat it with the respect it deserves.’

  ‘Like saying a prayer when you cut a branch off.’

  ‘If that’s all you can do, it’s better than nothing. If you truly want to work in ’armony with a piece of wood, you should build up a relationship with the tree first. Get to know its inner energies and ask its permission before you even think about cutting it. There should be a proper ceremony and the tree should agree you are worthy before it permits the sacrifice.’

  Archer couldn’t tell if the man was teasing him or not. ‘But you can’t have done all of that with each one of these staves, you wouldn’t have time.’

  ‘I didn’t personally, but the woodsman would have done it before he lifted the axe. No you’re right, I ’ave to content myself with trying to tune into the energy still left after it’s been drying for two years. Be assured, it’s still there and if you don’t treat it with due respect, it’ll fight you every step of the way.’

  Archer noticed that Till did a lot of his work with a sharp knife or chisel rather than the saw or rasp, and asked why.

  ‘Because if you split a piece of wood along its grain you get a cleaner cut and it causes less strain. The wood recovers more easily and will be more grateful to you and more likely to bend to your will. Also, it raises less of the ’armful dust.’

  ‘I wondered how you managed to work with the yew full time when everyone else has to take it in turns with the other woods.’

  ‘It’s my gift to resist the noxious effects of the yew. Not everyone is affected the same. Some people start to get the symptoms as soon as they walk into a room with yew wood in it.’

  ‘Like an allergy.’

  ‘Yep. We had one young ’prentice a few years ago. Excellent woodworking skills, but he could not walk through the door without his skin erupting in hives. We lost him to the fletcher next door, but at least he’s still in the noble craft.’

  Archer spent a morning looking round the equally impressive workshop in the adjacent building. He marvelled at the huge round fletching tables with thirty-two clamps, holding the arrow shafts so four fletchers could work simultaneously. Fletcher could not quite keep the pride out of his voice as he explained how they worked. ‘When all four have finished gluing the fletches on the first one, the table is spun to the next one and so on.’

  ‘So by the time you’ve finished the eighth arrow, the glue would be dry on the first one.’

  ‘Exactly. Bowman said you were a quick study. So then each shaft is turned to the second position and they start gluing the second feather.’

  ‘We can do three rounds an hour, so each person does twenty-four arrows. If you’re doing them one at a time, it takes about five minutes which is …’ He paused to calculate.

  ‘Only twelve arrows every hour so you can do twice as many. Remarkable.’

  ‘And it seems like less effort. After an hour of gluing, you would spend an hour at one of the binding stations, or turning shafts at the lathes, so you don’t get bored.’

  Archer was fascinated by the way the lathes were powered by the fletcher’s legs pushing the treadle. He watched a signer decorate a finished shaft with the customer’s own crest for competitions. The craftsman explained they made a hundred of each design before swapping to a new order. Archer examined an unturned shaft, recognising the wood. ‘Are they all ash, then?’

  ‘Mostly. Some willow and poplar’s getting very popular.’

  Archer grinned. They were all very friendly and keen to pass on their skills and knowledge. He didn’t get to the smithy where the arrow heads were manufactured or any of the other small businesses involved in the bowmaking industry. He was particularly taken with the dedicated glover, a seamstress who kept them supplied with clean pairs of thin cotton gloves. She also made the soft leather gloves they wore for protection when working with the harsh oils, glues and noxious woods; yew was apparently not the only poisonous one. His favourites however, were the swills, a couple of ex-seniors who were looking for a few months’ work before Herfest, when they began their studies at the university.

  Every two hours, the craftsmen in the yew rooms had a break while the poisonous shavings and dust were swept away to be sold to alchemists. The floors were swilled with water from the pump to remove the last specks of dust from the floor. The other rooms were only done at the middle and end of the day, a requirement of all the woodworking guilds, due to the number of bowyers and carpenters who had died from diseases of the lungs.

  In between this work, the swills had little to do, so they would earn the price of their lunch by entertaining the craftsmen with songs and poems or simply a pretty tune. Melosia had a sweet voice and played the harp well; Gilpin had a stock of lively ballads and would accompany himself on a lute.

  The days were long, and Archer spent much of his time in the hot, dusty rooms, before using the communal shower room with much gratitude. Almost all of the craftsmen used it before going home – they saw it as a definite benefit.

  Archer usually had a couple of practice shots in the courtyard while waiting for Fletch’s uncle Tanner to pick him up. Generally, he went to his cot shortly after dinner, completely exhausted.

  28 Singing Staves

  Archer spent time in every room in the complex and studied various techniques, from laminating through to the final assembly. He began to understand why the craftsmen were all so relaxed and patient; it wasn’t the right work for a quick-tempered person or someone who wanted a fast result. The painstaking work involved making tiny adjustments at each step until the final finishing.

  After the tillering, a coat of wax, oil and Bowman’s secret ingredient was applied with a soft cloth and left to dry for half a day. Three stages of polishing began with sandstone, then a sand bag and finally a rough cloth before the next coat. After three coats, the bow was tested, final trims made, then a further seven coats applied. The resulting texture was smooth, hard and shone like glass.

  After the second week, Bowman agreed Archer could work with the two staves he had been given. To get some inspiration, he decided to try what Till had suggested, so after his shower, he sat down cross-legged with one of the staves balanced across his hands. A brief meditation cleared his mind; then he sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. He visualised everyone who had patiently revealed the secrets of their gifts and experience, ending with Bowman, who got an extra thank you for making it all possible.

  Focussing on the wood, he closed his eyes, feeling its comforting weight and a slight warmth. His mind filled with images: a herd of deer running through a forest, a battlefield with a row of proud destriers carrying their armour-clad knights, waiting for the horn. Kneeling down in front of them was a row of the feared English archers with their longbows pointed at a slight angle upwards. The air turned white with goose feathers as wave after wave of shafts were loosed at the enemy, bringing instant death with their armour-piercing bodkins.

  The stave rolled slightly in his palms and his eyes flew open, concerned at the potential damage if he dropped it, but it was merely the end of the vision, the stave had spoken. ‘A longbow, elegant and proud.’ His own voice echoing the words out loud made him start. Feeling very foolish and hoping no one would come in; he put down the first stave and picked up the other one.

  Before he had even closed his eyes and mentally thanked the wood for the opportunity to work with it, his head once more filled with the vision of a forest. Not just any forest, but St Michael’s near Aveburgh, appearing as a small animal might see it, mostly green from the undergrowth. Moving up as the tree grew, he saw brown from the tree trunks, green from the leaves above and blue from the sky. The view changed rapidly and Archer realised he was seeing an accelerated version of the tree’s life. As it reached maturity, the trees next to it slowly disappeared.

  A sick feeling invaded his stomach as he identified the place and sure enough, an instant later, he recognised the sequence of events. From the yew tree’s perspective, it was simply a series of stran
ge flashes of light and the sound of the boys as they had jumped him and beaten him. His body jerked as he saw himself tied to the tree and heard the unbearable squealing sound. He realised it was caused by Edlyn breaking off the branches they used to whip him. After a few seconds of this horror, the forest cleared. Then he saw the woodsmen come in and place a hand on the tree reciting a prayer. Overwhelmed with sorrow, tears streamed down his cheeks and his body went rigid with pain.

  Archer could not escape the agony of the noise which filled his head as the woodsman chopped down the tree. The tiny part of his brain which could still function, told him to drop the stave, to end the pain, but that would be cowardly. He hung on tighter, trying to support it somehow, to let it know he would do nothing further to harm it. As suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped and his pain with it. Instead, his body filled with strength and energy like he had never felt before. Although he had been holding the stave for some time, his arms weren’t tired and the images in his head continued.

  A cheeky little bow, considerably shorter than the longbow with a curved shape, horn nocks, a soft leather handgrip and a decoration of yew leaves and red berries. He saw himself using the bow to fire arrows at many different types of targets, always flying directly to the bull. The dream Archer laughed at the exhilaration the bow felt as it made the arrows fly straight and true. Suddenly, his hands burnt and the layers of wax and paint were bubbled up and melted. His whole body was on fire and he could see flames all around.

  29 A Rare Talent

  ‘Wake up Archer. He’s burning up. Someone get some water.’

  He woke to find himself dripping wet – not only from the beaker of water Bowman had thrown over him, but also because his whole body melted with sweat.

  ‘I think you’d better go and have a shower.’