by Jack Whyte
It had already begun that day of their initial meeting, though none of us would learn of that for months to come.
Will told me many times about being swept away by love that day, about what he saw and how he felt when he was smitten by the woman who would quickly come to mean all the world to him, and as I listened to him over the first few months of such outpourings—for by then Mirren had returned to her home in Lanark—I was struck by the resemblance between the way he spoke of her and the ardour with which Andrew Murray had described his own love, the young woman with the liquidly beautiful name Siobhan. Both young men burned with the same ardent passion, and from the lambent purity of Will’s enthusiasm I came to see, through his eyes, what my own eyes had missed that afternoon.
I had arrived in Elderslie at mid-morning, mere hours before they met, and as soon as I had delivered the letter that had brought me there to Sir Malcolm, I set out to where he had told me I would find Will, a good half-hour’s walk from the main house. I found him near the westernmost edge of Sir Malcolm’s lands, close to the village of Elderslie itself and hard by the wagon road that led to it from Paisley. He was crouched over a narrow track through the long grass that lined the roadway, pawing at the grass with spread fingers, his head moving from side to side as he inched forward. He heard me coming, glanced up, then returned his attention to the ground ahead of him.
“Good day, idle Forester,” I greeted him. “Have you lost something?”
He swept his open hands through long grass, then looked at his palms and shrugged to his feet. “Not lost, nor found,” he said. “I’m looking for blood. But there doesna seem to be any.” It had been two weeks since last we met, but he spoke as if we had parted no more than an hour earlier; no greeting, no acknowledgment, no surprise.
“And should there be?”
He stooped then to pick up the strung bow in the long grass and then unstrung it, bracing the stave with his foot as he pulled it down to free the loop from its end.
“Aye, there should. I shot at a doe here … Throw me my case, there.” He caught the case easily and flipped off its cap, then turned completely around, his eyes scanning the surrounding grass as he slid the long stave into its tube. He replaced the cap and slung the case over his shoulder, shaking his head. “She should be lying here dead, but my eyes tell me I missed her from sixty paces.”
I made no reply to that, not knowing what to say, for I had never known him to miss any target from that range. He was still looking about him, his eyes now checking the line of flight from the base of an ash tree sixty paces away and passing his right side, right over the road and into a dense thicket of brambles.
“Anyway, she ran, and I thought I’d gut-shot her and would have to hunt her down, but there’s no blood. And no sign of my arrow. Mind you, I felt it flutter as it left the string. I must have torn the fletching without noticing and it flew off course. But God be my witness, I hate losing arrows.”
“What was wrong with the doe?”
Will sniffed and pulled several broadhead hunting arrows from the bag at his side, peering closely at the fletching on each one. “Old age and a lame leg. She’ll no’ last the winter and might no’ even reach it. I thought it would be kinder to kill her now and end her pains … But she’s well away from here by now.” He dropped the arrows back into his bag. “What brings you here this fine morning, then? You’re like to shrivel up and blow away in the brightness out here if you’re no’ careful, after being cooped up in your old, dark library.”
“Came to see you, and to deliver a letter to Sir Malcolm.”
“In that order, eh?” His thickening beard almost concealed the quirk of his grin. “Well, you see me now, and you seem to be in fine fettle. Though you look more like a damn priest each time I see you.”
It was true. Since taking up residence at the Abbey I had worn the grey habit of the resident monks. “I am a damn priest—or I soon will be.”
He grunted, then took hold of my right wrist and held my hand up to examine my fingers. “Ink … Are you still practising wi’ your bow? I don’t see any calluses.”
I freed my hand and wiggled my fingers, looking at them almost ruefully. “No, I never seem to find the time nowadays. And besides, it’s no fun if you’re not there. I’ve lost nearly all my calluses this past year.” I glanced across the road to the bramble thickets. “Are you not going to look for that arrow?”
“Nah, we’d never find it. It was moving flat across the ground. It could have passed right through that whole thicket without hitting anything. Did you bring anything to eat?” I shook my head and he grimaced. “Damn. Neither did I. Ran out and forgot all about eating this morning, wanting an early start. Looked for this wee doe for hours before I found her, and then missed her completely from close enough to touch her. Not a good morning’s work … Ach well. Let’s go into the village and find something to eat. It’s no’ far, and I’m famished.”
We talked about trivial things as we walked the half mile into the village and made our way directly to the sign of the Boar’s Head by the side of the common, where a few of the loiterers sitting by the entrance nodded to us as we entered. The dim interior reeked of stale beer, bad food, and smoky, guttering lamps even at noon. Supposedly a hostelry, as announced by the crudely painted sign of the mightily tusked boar’s head that hung above the front door, the place was in reality what the local folk called a howff—a drinking hole that could not even claim the respectability of a tavern. It was a den where men came at night to whore and gamble, drink and blaspheme, but it was also the only place in the village that sold food for instant consumption during the day, and as such it attracted a wider variety of customers in daylight than it did by night.
There were few customers inside, and we seated ourselves in a dark corner at the end of the plank table that served as a crude counter and sipped at flagons of thin, sour ale while we waited for the slatternly wife of Big Rab, the owner, to slop two platters of the day’s meat pie in front of us. Neither of us made any remark on the food or its delivery; we had been there many times before and were familiar with the way things were done. To my surprise, though, the pie that day was the best I had ever tasted there, hot and savoury and well stuffed with chunks of onion, turnip, and meat, and topped with a well-made crust. We ate without comment, neither of us daring to wonder aloud what kind of meat was in the pie, or where it came from, although I fancied that I could detect both venison and wild hare in the well-spiced mixture. We both knew that if it were venison, it had been taken illegally, so I kept silent and merely enjoyed it while Will, the forester and keeper, ate it without expressing either curiosity or enjoyment.
I could see he was far from happy with the situation, and at the same time I was aware of Big Rab loitering anxiously in the background, glancing worriedly at us from time to time and plainly expecting Will to say something. As we drained our flagons and stood up to leave, Rab’s wife came bustling towards us, the look on her face holding sufficient guilt to condemn both her and her man. Will muttered a gruff word of thanks and threw a coin on the table. I followed him wordlessly out of the place, noting the look of relief on Big Rab’s face as he scuttled away into the rear of the establishment.
As soon as we were outside I noticed that the loiterers had all gone. “Good pie,” I said. “I wonder who cooked it.”
“I don’t want to know,” he growled. “No more than I want to know where the deer came from.”
As he spoke, someone called his name in the distance, and we both turned to see one of Sir Malcolm’s tenants, a man called James Laithey, waving to us from the butts on the common. Here, as in any town or village, anyone who owned cattle had the right to graze them on the common, but in Elderslie, a strip of ground along the longest side was set aside in the summer months for archery. It was barely wide enough for three men to stand side by side and shoot towards the far end, some two hundred paces distant, but it was sufficient for the needs of the archers who used it, none of whom owne
d a longbow. The normal bow of Scots huntsmen and archers was broad and flat in section, sometimes laminated with layers of horn or sinew, and made from local ash or elm or even beech, and their average length was a yard and a half. One sometimes saw a five-foot bow being used, but those were usually in the hands of visiting bowmen, travellers who roamed the countryside matching their skills against the local marksmen and usually prospering. Will’s bow was an entirely different weapon from all of those, and he was generally reluctant to demonstrate its power in competition, a delicacy that was accepted gracefully by others once they had seen its power, and Will’s accuracy, for themselves.
I noticed strangers among the usual gathering of villagers, including a noisy group of about ten young people of both sexes and an unknown bowman who stood apart from the crowd and seemed to be the centre of attention. It was obvious from the height and width of both him and his long, broad bow that he was a wandering archer, looking to win money from the local marksmen.
“Shit,” Will muttered. “I suppose I’d better see what James wants. I could do without knowing, though, for I’m guessing at it already and I don’t like it.”
We waited for the other man to reach us.
“What is it, James? I have to get back to work.”
Laithey wasted no time in telling us. The stranger’s reputation had preceded him, for he had been making the rounds of the neighbouring villages and was far more proficient at his art than he professed to be. He would compete, appear to falter, lose several bouts, and then, on the point of paying his losses, would ask for one more match at double the stakes, at which point he would rally, and finish up with deadly precision, winning everything.
Will shrugged. “What do you want of me, James? You know I don’t shoot for money. This fellow will take one look at my bow and walk away.”
Laithey nodded. “He might. But he’s awfu’ cocksure and pleased wi’ himsel’. He likely thinks he can beat you.”
“How does he even know me? I’ve never seen him before.”
“Some of the fellows saw ye goin’ into the howff. They were talkin’ about ye, and the fellow was listenin’. And besides, if he walks away now, he’ll take every coin in the village wi’ him, for they’re a’ in his pocket already.”
Will sighed and looked sideways at me, rolling his eyes. “Who are those other folk, the young ones?”
“Just visitors, frae Paisley,” Laithey told him. “They’re here to visit young Jessie Brunton—her sisters and their friends.”
Will sighed. “Well,” he said at length, “I’ll offer him a match, but I doubt he’ll take it. If he’s won everything already I’m surprised he’s still here.”
“Don’t be. He was interested in what the lads had to say about ye. That’s why he’s waitin’.”
“Then he’s wasting his time. I’ve no money other than a groat or two.”
Laithey, who was known for both sobriety and thrift, grinned, for he had admired Will’s skill for years. “I’ll put up the coin,” he said. “Just this once, to see you beat this thief. And when you win, I’ll gi’e back the winnings to the fools who lost them.”
“You will? I’ll hold you to that. But what if I lose?”
The other man shrugged, still smiling. “You willna. But ’gin you do, I’ll take it as God’s judgment on me for gambling.”
Will dipped his head. “So be it. Let’s try him, then. But I doubt he’ll take the wager.”
The stranger, who introduced himself as plain Robertson, agreed to Will’s challenge with apparent reluctance, eyeing the long leather case that hung from his shoulder. But as the one being challenged, he had the setting of the terms, and it was immediately obvious he knew what he was doing. The most effective range of the yew longbow was between two hundred and two hundred and twenty paces, shooting at a six-inch target centre or a similarly thick fence post; beyond that distance, the yew archer tended to lose accuracy, and at lesser ranges the arrow flight was constrained by the bow’s huge strength, and the inaccuracy became even greater.
“Targets,” Robertson said. “Split posts, three inches thick, two feet high.” He watched narrow-eyed as Will considered that before nodding slowly, but then he could not hold back a wolfish grin as he continued. “At a hundred.”
It was an outrageous proposition, the short distance and halfwidth targets putting Will at an enormous disadvantage with his great yew bow. Will pursed his lips, appearing to think long and hard and be on the point of refusal, but then he sniffed and nodded. “Agreed. Even bets?”
“What? D’ye take me for a fool? Against that thing?” Robertson nodded at the longbow’s case as though he were not convinced that he had already crippled Will’s chances of winning. “Two to one. On your side.”
Will gazed for a long time at Robertson’s own bow, a flat, layered weapon of wood and sinew that flared to a hand’s breadth wide above and below the grip before tapering to the ends. Five feet long, I estimated. Will nodded, stone faced. “Accepted,” he said. “Set them up.”
Laithey shouted the terms to the waiting crowd, and a cluster of men quickly set about making the targets from the pile of six-inch posts at the edge of the butts, some of them splitting the lengths of wood into quarters and others hammering the stakes firmly into the ground until they were of uniform height, their freshly split wedged faces towards the archers. The crowd along the edges of the range grew denser as others were attracted by the activity. To my eyes the target stakes, barely projecting above the ungrazed pasture of the narrow strip, were barely visible from a hundred paces, and for the first time I could remember, I found myself doubting Will’s ability to hit them, recalling his missed shot at the sick doe earlier.
Will was by now stringing his bow and pulling target arrows from among the broadheads in his bag. The target arrowheads were long and heavy, solid and round and tapered like armour-piercing bodkins, shorter but no less sharply pointed; hollowed out, they fitted tightly over the arrows’ shafts, and were fletched with grey goose feathers. When he was satisfied with his six selections, he stepped forward to the firing line and thrust the arrows point first into the ground in a row by his right side.
Robertson had defined the range and the targets; Will’s was the choice to shoot first or last, and the right to determine the number of casts.
“One flight,” he said to his adversary. “Six shots only. You first, then me.”
Robertson nodded, plainly having expected this. “Six each, then. All at once, or shot by shot?”
“All at once. Straight count. Your six first, then mine. The winner the man who leaves most arrows in the marks. No repeats. I ha’e to get back to work.”
“Right. Let’s be about it.”
The crowd had separated in anticipation of the contest, a few of them flanking the firing line to watch the bowmen, but the majority crowding near the targets at the end of the narrow firing lane. I could see they had no fear of being killed by a stray shot. They were accustomed to such contests and they knew the skill of the contestants.
Robertson stepped forward to his side of the aiming line, nocking his first arrow to his string, and Laithey raised his arms and shouted for silence, bringing a hush to the crowd. Will’s eyes were narrowed, taking stock of his opponent’s stance and missing no single element of the man’s preparation.
The targets were small and the distance to them was short, but no one there, man or woman, would have thought to criticize. Every one of them knew how difficult the contest was, precisely because of those constraints.
Robertson stood stock-still, his eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at the first mark, its bottom half obscured by waving fronds of seeding grass. He held the bow loosely, resting horizontally across his left thigh, the fingers of his right hand gripping the string above and below the nocked end of the arrow. Then, still slit-eyed, he spread his feet, taking a half-step back with his right, and brought the bow up smoothly, leaning into it and drawing the taut string to his cheek as though it was weig
htless. He released quickly. The sound of the arrow’s flight was lost in the snap of the bowstring against the shaped guard of bull horn that protected his forearm, and the crowd hissed as his shaft struck solidly, within a palm’s width of the top of the distant mark. The peg was deeply buried, almost twothirds of its length firmly seated in the earth, but the force of the arrow’s impact moved it visibly and split it; the arrow was gripped there, pointing sideways and down.
Without pausing, Robertson drew and loosed again, nocking a fresh arrow within seconds of each shot until he had fired all six within the span of a single minute. As the sixth hit home, some of the distant watchers clapped and whistled. Only his third shot had missed its mark. Another, his fourth, caught the very top of its stake, where the wood was flattened and frayed by the maul that had hammered it into the ground; the point lodged in the damaged wood, but the arrow hung precariously in place. The other four missiles were firmly lodged in the target stakes. He turned to Will with a tiny smirk.
“Five, you agree?”
“Aye, five hits. A fine try. Not bad at all. I’ve seen far worse.”
“Not bad?” The smirk widened. “Let’s see you do better, then.”
Will’s six arrows were still where he had set them in the ground, about a pace behind the firing line, and now he moved to stand beside them, plucking up the first of them and laying it across his horizontal bow stave, holding it in place with his left index finger while he nocked the end slot securely onto the taut string. His arrows were longer than Robertson’s by a full finger’s length, thicker and therefore heavier than the other man’s. He flexed his fingers on the bow’s grip, then froze, concentrating.