Blackthorn 'An Archer's Tale'

By W.Wm. Mee

Clouds of steel-tipped Death rain down from the skies!
It’s the Year of Our Lord 1296 and King Edward Longshanks of England is waging war against the rebellious Scots. Longshanks has the largest army in Christendom, but he lacks one thing--- archers. Men who have trained since childhood to bend the infamous English longbow and send their yard long shafts tipped with steel bodkins through chain, scale and plate armor. To recruit such highly skilled men Longshanks offers the promise of money, land and a pardon for all earlier crimes against the crown.
Archer Hugh Blackthorn, living in the forest as an outlaw, takes the king’s pardon and marches northward with Longshanks’ army. There Hugh meets Molly O’Grady, the love of his life; Sir Owen Wren, a Welsh knight who swears that one of them must die; comes face to face with the outlaw William Wallace and befriends the future king of Scotland, Robert the Bruce.
Step back in time nearly a thousand years to an age when wars were fought face to face with bared steel in hand and a ‘long shot’ came not from a sniper’s rifle, but from an equally skilled soldier using an English longbow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Jan 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463812518

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

PART ONE

‘The Outlaw’

Chapter 1: Wolfshead

Fall of 1295

Breton Wood

Northern England

Hugh Blackthorn hadn’t always been an outlaw, it just felt like it. Living all but bare assed in the greenwood and robbing travelers for pennies wasn’t much of a life --- but it was better than swinging from a gibbet while the crows feasted on your eyes.

We should join the bloody king’s army and go fight someone, Old Tom Fletcher grumbled, doing his best to get wet wood to burn and failing miserably.

And why would we do a fool thing like that, Tom? Sam Smith asked as he prepared a freshly killed rabbit for Tom’s non-existent fire. You in a hurry to get an arrow in the eye or a sword in that great belly of yours?

I’m in a hurry to get something besides stringy rabbit in my belly! Tom rumbled, trying again to get a spark going, then throwing his tinderbox down in disgust. And I’m in a hurry to sleep under a roof and not a bloody dripping bush!

Here, let me do that, Hugh said, taking a bit of dry grass from his pouch and squatting down to strike a spark. In a few moments he had a pyramid of twigs blazing away, the flames reflecting off the dripping leaves. There you go, Tom. Think you can manage now?

Bugger off, Hugh, the older man grumbled. You always were too clever by half!

Hugh grunted out a laugh. If I’m so bloody clever, what are we doing out here in the damp greenwood with prices on our head and no food in our bellies?!

Here now, that reminds me! Sam said as he took a folded wanted poster from under his vest and handed it to Hugh. "I got this today in the village when I went in for salt. Nailed up in the village green it was! I figured it might be about us --- but if it ain’t, then maybe we could nip-up the buggers named n’ turn them in to the sheriff for the reward!"

Let me get this straight, Sam said sarcastically. "We three are wanted by the sheriff, and you want us to catch other poor buggers wanted by the sheriff, and then turn them in for the reward money! Oh that’s bloody brilliant, that is!"

Old Tom shrugged. Ya, I do. Better them than us!

Sam shook his head. "But the sheriff will recognize us as well you old fool!"

How’s he gunna do that? Tom demanded. He don’t know what I look like, nor you neither! Hugh here might be caught on account of him being so bloody tall n’ such a famous archer n’ all, but not you n’ me! We could march those wanted felons right up to his bloody lordship and demand our reward!

Sam smiled and shook his head again. You’re a mad old man, Tom, do you know that?!

Tom’s semi-toothless grin went from ear to ear. I do --- n’ I don’t give a shit! Tom then held out the wanted poster to their leader. How much they paying for us now, Hugh?

Read it yourself, the tall, lanky archer replied.

Now, Hugh, Sam put in; You know Old Tom can’t read.

Can too! Tom replied angrily. At least my name I can! Some numbers as well!

Oh, aye! Sam said, holding out the wanted poster. Mighty book-learned is Old Tom. Go on then Tom, read it to us.

Tom batted it away and swore.

Sam smiled and held up the parchment, studying it like an Oxford scholar. "Hhhmmm. It is about us, and the prize has gone up some since the last time! Hell, for this much coin I might just turn myself in!"

Old Tom shuffled forward, his eyes bright. Go on then, Samuel, show off as usual n’ read the damn thing!

Sam did as he was told, having leaned to read years ago when he was in training for the priesthood. A buxom young milkmaid however had cut short his ecclesiastical studies by talking the young novice into her father’s hayloft and introducing him to the ‘joys of the flesh’. When Sam got to the part about how much was offered for each outlaw, Old Tom cursed and spit into the fire.

Taint fair, I say! Taint fair at all to tally me less than Sam! Why fifty crowns for him n’ only thirty for me?! Hugh here I expect to be worth more, as he’s a famous archer home from the Welsh Wars. Everyone knows that he kilt more Welshman than the plague n’ damn near kilt that Prince Daffyd fella! But Sam here being worth more than me taint fair! Why, he was still in bloody priest school when I were over in Flanders sodierin’ for ol’ Harry Three!

Sam smiled and puffed out his chest. Clearly it’s a case of skill, brains and beauty over grey hair, wrinkles and a big belly!

Go to hell! Tom grumbled.

Undoubtedly, Tom, Sam grinned. "But not today. Today we dine on skinny rabbit and wild onions!’

Shove your skinny rabbit up your arse! Tom said. And your bloody wild onions as well! I’m off to the Boar’s Head for some proper food!

And what will you pay with, Tom? Sam asked, giving Hugh a mischievous wink. In those ragged clothes and smelly leathers, along with that scarred face and missing teeth, it’s not your good looks that will buy you dinner.

Tom dug into the front of his filthy shirt and pulled out a small bag of coins. He hefted the pouch and grinned slyly. "I’ve been savin’ these for a rainy day --- which is just about every bloody day in this goddamned forest!"

Sam, younger than Tom by a handful of years, snatched up the purse and tossed it to Hugh, the youngest of the three. Been robbing the poor box again, have you Tom? Sam said. God frowns on that. Rob a fat bishop or high churchman and God smiles, for their all cheats and fornicating thieves; but rob a poor box meant for widows and hungry children is a sin not easily shrugged off.

It didn’t come from no goddamn poor box! Old Tom spat out. "I’ve been savin’ it like I said. Figure I’d buy us a French whore n’ we can rent her out at the Boars Head. An Englishman will pay dear for a bit of foreign quiff --- n’ a Scotsman even more!"

And why, Thomas, Sam asked,: would a tight fisted Scotsman pay more for foreign quiff than an Englishman?

Old Tom’s smile showed his missing teeth. Didn’t they teach you nothin’ at that priest school? Everyone knows that a Scotsman uses his sheep for more than wool n’ mutton! But even a hairy assed Scot likes a bit o’ two legged quiff once in a while!

You’re a canny businessman, Tom, I’ll give you that, Sam quipped, his small eyes dancing. You should have been a priest, for their past masters at making money.

Go shag yerself, Sam, then, turning to their tall leader, Tom asked about his pouch of coins: How much I got in there, Hugh? Once them numbers get too high my old brain goes all fuzzy like.

Have to take your boots off past ten, do you Tom? Sam grinned. You might not make a good priest after all. Best start of as a bishop. With them it’s always ‘one for you and five for me’.

Give it a rest, Sam, Hugh said softly, yet there was no softness in his grey eyes. He poured the older man’s coins out in his palm and whistled.

Jesus wept, Tom, you got a small fortune here! It looks like near a hundred crowns or more! Hugh moved the various sized coins around in his large, calloused hand. They might have been the hands of a farmer or a common laborer, except for the thick chest, chorded arms and bulging shoulder muscles that went with them. All sure signs of a well trained archer. Not a ‘hunter’ or ‘casual sportsman’, but someone that trains daily with a powerful longbow and started that never ending regime not long after leaving his mother’s tit.

Nough to buy us that French whore? Tom asked. And a tavern to put her in!

Hugh replied, then: "Now Tom, tell me true; where did you get all this?"

Tom, though far from the sharpest arrow in the quiver, was not the fool he often appeared. You remember that raggedy assed knight we robbed a month or so back?

The smart mouthed bugger with the German accent? Sam asked.

The very one, Tom said, his scared and lined face still grinning, his missing front tooth prominent. Well, after we stripped off his mail shirt and gear, I went back for a quick look in his drawers.

You went digging through the bugger’s drawers?! Sam asked.

Old Tom nodded. Oft times rich bastards hide a pouch down there with the ‘family jewels’, if ya get my meanin’! Well, sure ‘nough, there was that very sack tied on a leather thong! Hangin’ right alongside his ballocks it was! A quick snip n’ it were mine!

But you know the rule, Tom, Sam said, frowning and serious. Share and share alike! Whatever we find is split three ways, not keep for yourself!

I know that! Tom snapped. "N’ that’ s always been fine by me. But when I seed that this was a ‘lot’ o’ coin, I decided to keep it for us! To ‘invest’ in our future!"

Like a French whore to rent out to randy Scotsman? Sam asked.

Well, Tom replied, all pensive and thoughtful. At first I though we should buy one of those dark skinned Moorish whores, but there aint a hellova lot ov’em wanderin’ around northern England. But a French whore we can find easy enough.

"So Hugh and me were to be your ‘partners’ in this enterprise?"

Tom frowned, not sure of that last word. "Of course you were! God’s bones, Sam, we three have been partners for nearly four years now! I was just keepin’ the coin sort o’ like one o’ them Eye-tallion banks! If not, hell, you’d only drink, gamble n’ womanize your share away in a month and Hugh would probably give all his away to some good lookin’ widow with a gaggle of bare assed orphans! Me now, I’d hold on to the lot of it just like a nun n’ her maidenhood!"

Well then, Sam beamed, rubbing his hands together. Might I suggest we celebrate this ‘partnership’ with a fine meal and a stiff drink at the Boards Head? After all, if we three are to become ‘wealthy businessmen’, we should damn well start acting the part!

Old Tom was all for it, though at first Hugh remained his usually silent, laconic self. Nonetheless the fire was soon covered with dirt, the rabbit hung from a tree to ‘ripen’ for another day and all three outlaws gathered up their longbows and set out for a night of wine, women and song at the local tavern.

***

Chapter 2: ‘The Boar’s Head Inn’

Though it was harvest time and most the villagers should have been toiling in the fields, a large number of them had crowded into the quaint little stone inn on the northern edge of sprawling Breton Wood. They were not there however just for the innkeepers’ home made ale or his goodwife’s delicious meat pies, but to also see and hear the twice yearly spectacle created by the recruiting officer, Sergeant Solomon Finch!

Aside from the usual drink, music and singing, there would be news and gossip of the outside world, but the main attraction was the grandiose ‘speechafying’ of the tall sergeant about the joys and wonders of being in ‘the Bloody Royal Army of King Edward the Bloody First!’

Hugh, Sam and Old Tom, though officially wanted outlaws, were not only tolerated by the small hamlet of Breton-On-The-Tyne, but seen by most as local heroes, and as such, were always given a warm greeting! Much like the infamous folk hero, ‘Robin O’ The Hood’, Hugh and his lads freely ‘donated’ a portion of their stolen pennies and clipped coppers to the village priest, Friar Hobbs, who in turn quietly dolled them back out to the local inhabitants.

Stealing is a sin in the eyes of God, lads, the tall, rake-thin friar always told them as he quickly stuffed the pouch of coins into his course robes. But giving to the poor not only erases the sin but puts a smile on the God’s face as well!

Sam and Old Tom would always bow their heads and cross themselves at this, while Hugh, who didn’t believe in anything beyond the bond of friendship and the strength of his bow arm, merely nodded.

As it turned out, it was Friar Hobbs himself who greeted the archers outside the Boar’s Head. Good noontide to you three! the tall, lanky friar called out. Have you come to sign up?

Sign up for what, father? Sam asked. If it’s an ale drinking contest them I’ll gladly make my mark, but if you need a fat, raggedy scarecrow to protect your garden, then Old Tom here’s your man!

Always the jester, Sam, Father Hobbs smiled. You’d have made a good village priest.

But a poor bishop, father, Sam countered: for they all seem to find the world an evil, sour place.

The priest merely smiled and shook his head. I meant are you three here to sign up to fight the heathen Scot? Sergeant Finch himself is inside doing his level best to get every lad that can to take the king’s coin and march northward!

Plenty o’ young fools doin’ that are there, father? Old Tom asked.

Aye, a goodly number, Tom, Friar Hobbs replied. And plenty of older fools as well! Ezekiel the Tanner --- why, the man must be nearly fifty --- signed up right after his youngest son made his mark! And now father and son are going off together to smite the wicked! God will be smiling down on England this day!

Do you really believe that, father? Hugh quietly asked. He hadn’t been looking at the friar when he spoke, but watching the crowd inside the small inn begin to spill out into the much larger courtyard.

What was that, Hugh? the tall friar asked. I didn’t hear you son.

Hugh turned his wolf grey eyes on Hobbs and repeated his question. I asked if you really believe that, father? That God gives a shit about who kills who over what? Or that He ever gives a moment’s thought about any of us?!

Friar Hobbs looked as though Hugh had struck him with a poleaxe. He visibly staggered and might have fallen had not Sam grabbed his arm. You --- you speak heresy, Hugh! the friar gasped. Worse, you speak blasphemy! To doubt God’s plan is to doubt the very foundation of our faith!

Hugh, still calm, shrugged. Your faith, father, not mine.

The friar shook off Sam’s helping hand and stepped forward. I don’t believe that, Hugh! I’ve known you for over three years now and I know you to be a good man!

Hugh barked out a dry laugh. You know nothing of me, father. All you see is a thief that steals from wealthy men and then buys forgiveness by giving a few pennies to the poor. You know nothing of what I did before I came to Breton Wood! Of the men I’ve killed, the women I’ve widowed and the children I’ve left fatherless!

Friar Hobbs took Hugh’s calloused hands in his own. "I know more than you think, Hugh Blackthorn. I know that you were a soldier in the Welsh Wars and that you have killed a large number of men with that great bow of yours. But a soldier’s sworn duty is to kill his king’s enemies. You, my son, were only doing your duty --- though I see it lies heavily on your soul. Father Hobbs squeezed the tall archer’s hands. But think on this; God, though He abhors the shedding of blood, will gladly forgive you --- if you but ask Him."

Hugh gently pulled free from the friar’s grip. It’s too late for that, father.

"It’s never too late to ask for God’s forgiveness."

Hugh’s self mocking smile was back again, but this time there was a sharp edge to his voice. "But it is too late! And it’s been too late for years now! Ever since an arrow meant for me struck the woman I loved! Ever since your so-called ‘loving God’ turned a deaf ear to my prayers and let her die!"

Hugh’s fierce gaze bored into the tall friar, who, a braver man than most, faced Hugh’s wrath and met it with kindness.

God’s ways are not for us to understand, Hugh. It is enough that we know that He loves us and will gather us to Him when our time has come.

You may believe that, father --- and I truly hope it brings you comfort --- but I don’t. How could I, when I don’t believe that He even exists?!

Friar Hobbs slowly shook his head. "It saddens me, Hugh, to hear you say that. All I can tell you is that though you may not believe in Him, He still believes in you."

With that Hugh’s anger, self-hatred and guilt suddenly boiled over. That’s all just a bucket o’ shite, father --- and I’ll hear no more of it! Turning, he shoved some grinning farmer out of the way and stalked off into the near empty inn ---for most had gathered outside, patiently waiting for the main attraction, Sergeant Solomon Fitch, to begin his recruiting speech.

But Hugh was in no mood for witty oration. He’d already had enough of that from Friar Hobbs and what he wanted now was to get drunk --- for only then could he briefly forget the guilt he felt for still being alive while the red headed Welsh girl was not.

Only in drink could he briefly forget that the girl he had loved more than life itself had died instead of him --- died with a arrow in her heart and his baby in her belly.

Only in drink would the numbing pain lessen and he could forget for a little while that the same arrow that had stopped her heart had seeming killed his own!

Only then could he forget that he was but a ghost of the man that should have died three years ago in a small Welsh village that the English army had ravaged.

And only in drink could he forget that God had allowed it all to happen!

***

At first glance Sergeant Solomon Finch looked like a sour, thin-faced, humorless man --- but it wasn’t true. He had a humorous side, though at times it ran rather dark. Some might even say too dark, for he’d been a soldier for many years and seen the evil that men can do when allowed to run wild.

‘Discipline’, the sergeant firmly believed, was the only thing that could save men from the chaos and madness of war. Not the Pope nor God nor even Sweet Bloody Jesus! ‘Discipline’s the thing, lads!’ he’d tell all the bright eyed, eager young fools who took his coin and sold their souls to king, country and the Devil! ‘Trust in discipline, do as I say and you’ll come home a hero!’ This was usually followed up by a wink and a finger alongside his nose; ‘And the girls do love a man in uniform!’

Of course it was all a lie. Not the ‘discipline’ part, for the sergeant truly did believe in that --- but the rest about the girls and them all coming home heroes was an overflowing crock of shite. The hard truth was that most wouldn’t come home at all, and those few that did would be changed forever. They’d be wounded in body, mind and soul, for once a man cries ‘havoc’ and lets lose the animal within, he’s never quite be the same again. As for the ‘patiently waiting sweethearts’, they hardly ever do --- but for the few poor, misguided fools who actually do wait, soon most don’t know, want or even recognize the wild, angry, bitter man that their ‘sweet young lad’ had turned into.

Sergeant Finch had seen that pent up anger in hundreds of young soldiers returning from the wars, but he was surprised to see it in quiet, pastoral little hamlet of Brentwood on the Tyne.

Most men are completely unaware of