Longbow Girl

by Linda Davies

  James knew immediately which mounted figure was the king. He recognized him from the history books but he would have picked him out anyway. He could feel the power pumping from the man as he glanced around, smiling beneficently, the regal king returning victorious from the hunt. He could see it in the watchful and frightened eyes of the audience.

  This was pure, absolute power.

  The king reined in his horse in front of the countess. She lowered her gaze respectfully. As she curtsied, her crimson sleeves draped to the ground. She couldn’t keep her hands still. They fluttered and danced, and the dangling sleeves swept the cold afternoon air, orchestrating her words as she addressed her king:

  ‘Welcome back to the Black Castle, Your Majesty.’

  The king dismounted. James watched, transfixed, not quite believing that here in his own castle stood Henry VIII. Legendary king. Religious renegade. Wife killer.

  He was every bit as big as his reputation. He stood feet planted, powerful legs braced, huge chest puffed out. His face was broad, his lips small and pursed, as if tightly controlling some emotion, possibly impatience. His beard with the drooping moustache gave him a touch of melancholy but it was still, overwhelmingly, a belligerent fighter’s face. The widely spaced blue eyes, the direct gaze, the high eyebrows seemingly set in a permanent challenge.

  Power corrupts, and James could see its legacy in the king. It would not do to upset this man. As the ghosts of his two murdered wives would attest: one recently beheaded, the other not even married.

  Merry sat at the kitchen table in the stone cottage. The fire burnt away nicely but there was no sign of Mair. Merry wondered where she’d gone. She felt both nauseous and starving. Sick with worry for her parents, who would have discovered her absence and her note. Starving as usual. She was grateful for that little bit of normality. She found herself instinctively reaching for her phone, wanting to text or ring James. He always made her feel better. She gave a bitter laugh. He was nearly five hundred years away.

  She pushed up, prowled around the little kitchen. She needed to do something. Occupy herself. She ought to get breakfast ready, but there was no fridge stocked with milk and eggs and bacon, no boxes of cereal, no foil-wrapped pats of butter. She didn’t know where to start.

  A distant burst of trumpets sounded. She hurried to the door, peered out. When she saw that there was no one around, she walked out, stared in amazement at the spectacle across the valley.

  Merry couldn’t see faces from this far, but she could see a huge figure on a fine black horse riding at the head of a cavalcade of mounted men followed by more men on foot leading at least eight wolfhounds. Hordes of people streamed out from under the portcullis of the Black Castle. They scurried around the man, bowing low before him, walking backwards as he rode forward. King Henry VIII. The man who held the future of her family in his hands, who would toy with that future, throw it all into peril when he declared the tourney.

  Even from a distance, the power of the king and the fear he inspired was obvious – as it had been when he’d ridden past on that first hunt. It rippled across the valley, made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The next time she saw him, she’d be close up. How would she fare then, in his presence, with so much at stake … so much to do …

  She prayed the tourney would be soon, for her family’s sake, both now and in her time. And for her sake. She didn’t want to live too long with this fear.

  When the king and his entourage disappeared into the Black Castle, she went back inside the cottage.

  Not long afterwards, the door swung open behind her. Merry spun around, and in one smooth move unsheathed the knife she wore on her thigh strap and brandished it in front of her.

  It was Mair. The old woman took two quick paces back, eyes wide. ‘Put away your weapon,’ she said quickly.

  Merry stared at her blade as if wondering how it got there.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, sheathing the knife. She noticed her hand trembling, felt the burn of her own fear and adrenaline. ‘Seeing the king just now … it spooked me.’

  ‘Given the whole valley fright.’

  The old lady closed the door and bolted it. She turned back to Merry.

  ‘Everyone in sound mind is riven with fear. Even, it is said, the earl and countess. Everyone knows what happens to those who fall from grace.’

  ‘They lose their heads,’ murmured Merry.

  She felt a jolt run through her as she understood, suddenly, where the expression came from. It was bandied about in her time like it meant nothing. Now it meant everything.

  She shivered. ‘Where’ve you been, then?’ she asked.

  Mair smiled and some of the tension left the room. ‘To find the longbow girl a bow.’

  ‘I’d’ve come with you.’

  Mair shook her head. ‘Not garbed like that. Remember, the earl’s men are hunting you.’ She eyed Merry up and down. ‘You look outlandish.’

  Lycra and fleece, thought Merry. Twenty-first-century wardrobe essentials that would mark her as an outsider, some kind of weird foreigner, immediately.

  ‘I’ve laid out some more suitable clothes for you,’ said Mair, nodding at a small pile on the stool.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Merry.

  ‘What happened to the others I gave you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I left them behind. In my time.’ She didn’t add that she’d cut up a bit of the shawl to hide a stolen ring.

  Mair made a face, half annoyance, half resignation. ‘Luck has smiled on you. Got these a few weeks back in payment for healing an archer who’d cut himself making arrows. Nasty infection but I cured it. Change, then we’ll eat.’

  The healer busied herself with a pot and what looked like oats and milk while Merry dressed in the new clothes. Cream woollen leggings, a white linen shirt, a green woollen tunic, heavy, but loose around her shoulders. A brown leather belt.

  Mair turned, studied her. ‘Much better. Now,’ she said, handing over a wooden pail, ‘fetch us some water, would you?’

  For a fleeting moment, Merry found herself looking around for a tap; then she remembered the well.

  ‘Don’t mind my cow,’ Mair added. ‘She’s friendly.’

  Merry unbolted the door and walked outside. She paused for a moment, gazing at the valley. All was quiet now. All the action would be inside the fortress of the Black Castle, far from prying eyes.

  Merry spotted the cow. As she approached it, the animal suddenly started at a noise in the copse down the hill. It sounded like a branch snapping. Probably some animal moving around, thought Merry. A big animal. Were there wolves? She hurried to the well to draw up the water.

  By the time she returned to the cottage, Mair had set two steaming bowls of porridge on the table. Each was decorated with a clump of honeycomb. It was rich, filling and delicious. When they’d finished eating, Merry cleared up.

  ‘What now?’ she asked.

  ‘We sit and we wait. You can help me pound some herbs if you seek occupation.’

  Merry smiled her thanks. ‘I do. Please. Anything.’

  As she sat in the little room, grinding dried herbs to a powder, using a pestle and mortar, she felt a wave of dizziness, a kind of vertigo of time. She’d done the exact same thing, so many times, sitting right here with Seren alongside her, teaching her about plants and their properties, about what could heal and what could kill.

  The hours passed unmarked by any clock. As day sank into night, Mair lit the tallow candles; then she and Merry picked up their knives and started to peel and chop a basket full of vegetables to make a stew.

  Merry’s thoughts went to her mother and father. What were they doing now? What suffering were they going through, with her missing?

  Merry sheathed her knife as the vegetables bubbled in their pot over the fire. As darkness fell, she and Mair sat down to their vegetable stew. Merry wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat.

  Outside, the spring winds were screaming again, masking the sounds of approa
ch.

  The knock at the door made them jump. They exchanged a quick, terrified look.

  Mair lifted her finger to her lips, nodded at her side room. Soundlessly, Merry eased back her stool, picked up her plate, spoon and tankard, slid behind the curtain. She unsheathed her knife and waited.

  The old lady went to the door. ‘Who goes there?’ she called out.

  ‘Ivan Evans,’ came the reply.

  Merry hid behind the thin curtain, knife poised, heart pounding. Who was Ivan Evans? A bounty hunter? A friend?

  Mair called out, ‘Just a moment.’

  Bolts slid back, cold blew in as she opened the door. A reek of blood filled the air.

  ‘I’ve something for you,’ said a low male voice. Then there was a chuckle. ‘Two somethings. A nice bit of lamb, slaughtered just an hour ago.’ The man paused and his voice lilted up questioningly. ‘And a war bow for you. Well, for someone who stands five feet seven, I think you said. Most specific you were, according to Farmer Pryce, who I saw coming home from market. I said why is Mair Morgan after a war bow and he said don’t ask, just get. So here it is. Been in my family since before my grandfather’s time. Bit of a history … Bit of a draw … but any man worth his salt should be able to manage it, and if he can’t, he isn’t a man.’

  Merry pulled a face but she was thrilled. She had a bow!

  ‘Here’s an arrow bag too,’ the man was saying. ‘Twelve flight arrows, with the goose fletchings trimmed right low. The best. I filed them down, took off as much weight as I could. You asked for long distance. These’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you, Farmer Evans. I am much obliged.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering, though, who it might be for. See, I heard something today …’ The man’s voice tailed off.

  ‘What did you hear?’ asked Mair.

  ‘I heard from my brother, you know him, he’s footman to the earl, that tonight at the banquet the king will declare a tourney for two days hence. And he will call upon the Owens to honour their pledge. He will call on them to send forth a longbowman.’

  Behind the curtain, Merry gripped her knife, body rigid with anticipation and fear. So the countdown had begun.

  ‘We will see,’ Mair replied crisply. ‘I thank you again, Farmer Evans, and must bid you goodnight.’

  Merry listened to their mutual farewells, then, when she heard the door click open, then shut firmly, with the bolts drawn home, she slipped out from behind the curtain.

  She glanced at Mair, took the bow the healer held out to her. She felt that familiar surge of power as she held it in her hands.

  She stood it next to her. Just slightly longer than she was tall. The perfect length … She weighed it in her hands. Only a fractional lack of balance could mean that an arrow loosed over a distance of just fifty yards would either hit the gold or miss by inches. She prayed this bow would shoot true.

  She put it down, picked up the arrow bag. She knew that archers in this time did not usually carry quivers. The open top meant that rain could get in. Wet feathers made arrows fly crooked. And in the rough and tumble of battle, arrows could fall out of an open quiver. Nothing would fall from this arrow bag. Made from linen, it was secured with a lace fastening that bound the top closed. It felt resinous to the touch, as if waterproofed with wax. Inside there was a fine wooden frame to space the arrows and widen the bag so that the feathers would not be crushed.

  Merry took out a selection of arrows, examined them, balancing them on her outstretched fingers. They were light. Wonderfully light. They’d really fly. She pressed her finger to the steel tip. But they could kill too.

  Inside the bag were two coiled strings. But Merry wasn’t going to use those. She selected her own string from her backpack. Flemish inlaid and fourteen strands, the best the twenty-first century could provide. It would put the bow under huge strain, but it was her only hope for making the distance.

  She unbolted the door and walked out into the night. She stood a few paces from the cottage. Mair followed her, holding out a candle, lighting Merry’s silent ritual.

  First, using her knee to help bend the stave, she strung her bow.

  Then she measured the distance from the handle to the string with her right fist.

  She heard her father’s voice in her head. Looks about right. Not too highly strung, cariad …

  Now to test the draw. She flexed her legs, bent over again and in the familiar, fluid movement started to straighten up, pulling back the bow at the same time. Her muscles strained and shook. She called up all her strength. Fifty-five pounds or so, she guessed. Five pounds heavier than she was used to, but she could do it. She had to do it. She pulled it back to its full draw, right to her ear and she held it there, muscles burning.

  It seemed to her like the wood was singing, or screaming maybe. She released it slowly, then unstrung it.

  She turned to Mair, to the candle bright in the darkness.

  ‘Now all I need is a target.’

  The clanging of the gong echoed through the Black Castle. It was time for the feast. Dressed in gleamingly white tights, a red-and-green doublet with a frill that at least offered some level of cover below his hips, James was escorted from his room by the scarred man-at-arms, Brioc.

  ‘No rapier for me?’ James asked, eyeing Brioc’s weapon.

  ‘Not a man-at-arms, are you?’

  ‘No, but I am a lord.’

  Brioc shot him a look of disdain. ‘Come on. Wouldn’t do to keep His Majesty waiting …’

  As James followed the hordes of guests heading into the Great Hall, Brioc suddenly paused and bowed. ‘My Lord,’ he said, addressing a tall, hard-faced man who James immediately recognized as his ancestor, the twelfth earl.

  ‘Who have we here, Brioc?’ The earl asked.

  James pushed down a quick stab of fear. He could feel instinctively, and see from the look in the man’s eyes that this wasn’t one of the useless de Courcy earls. This man was a red-in-tooth-and-claw warrior, and he looked as if he’d have been quite happy to lunge at James with the rapier that hung from his waist.

  James gave a slight bow. ‘I am Lord James de Courcy. Of Château Clermont.’

  The earl’s eyes widened and he subjected James to a quick and ruthless scrutiny. His eyes came to rest on James’s hand. He reached out, grabbed it, turned it palm up.

  He reached out his finger, traced it over James’s signet ring. And froze. He opened his mouth to speak but his words were drowned out by a sudden peal of trumpets, followed by shouts:

  ‘The king! The king!’

  The earl let go of James’s hand and bent to whisper something into Brioc’s ear. Whatever it was could not have been good. James felt a flash of fear as the man-at-arms turned and gave him a ferocious look.

  Then all eyes turned to the king, to Henry VIII as he processed surrounded by his entourage of men-at-arms into the hall. He was draped in velvets and furs, shoulders gigantic, glittering with gold chains and jewelled rings.

  The Countess de Courcy appeared and together with the earl, led the king to the largest table, seating him between them. The countess wore a gown of rose-gold silk and velvet, heavily embroidered, fitted tight over her waist to show off her youthful figure. She was adorned with the de Courcy rubies.

  James’s heart was hammering. Now! Get out, now … He began to turn, found himself flanked by Brioc and Cranog who had suddenly materialized.

  ‘Wrong way, Lord James. Forgetting our etiquette, aren’t we?’ whispered Cranog. ‘When His Majesty sits, we sit.’

  Together the men-at-arms herded James towards one of the two long tables, furthest away from the king, talking, smiling all the while as if it were nothing more than a magnificent social occasion. They took their seats on either side of him. James felt trapped.

  Once the king had reached for his first bite of peacock leg, Brioc and Cranog tucked in. The table groaned with meats. There was venison and lamb and chicken but there were also what looked suspiciously like swans. James had no a
ppetite, but he forced himself to eat.

  The dining hall fell silent as the king pushed to his feet.

  ‘I would like to thank my gracious hosts, the Earl and Countess de Courcy,’ he declared. He paused, turned, offered them regal smiles. ‘We have had a successful few days hunting. We speared two dozen boar and a score of those wretched Welsh Mountain ponies that corrupt the breeding of my war horses.’

  There was an eruption of cheers and claps and shouts of approval. James looked around in disbelief. He thought of Merry’s ancestor, wondered if some of those ponies might have belonged to him.

  Then the king opened his mouth to speak and, as if a spell had been cast, everyone fell silent once more. ‘Even the fickle Welsh weather has been kind to us, and now this magnificent feast. To offer the smallest reciprocation, I declare a tourney to be held, two days hence.’ More roars from his minions, more clapping and clashing of goblets.

  ‘We shall have jousting, we shall have pitching the bar, we shall have archery. This part of the world is famed for the prowess of its bowmen. I look forward to seeing it with my own eyes.’ The king turned to the earl and exchanged what James could only call a conspiratorial look with him.

  ‘On behalf of my hosts, I issue a summons,’ he declared, his voice booming around the hall. ‘I call upon the Owen family of Nanteos Farm to send forth a fit and able longbowman. He must enter my contest. He must acquit himself with distinction. He must honour the pledge made by his forebears to the Black Prince.’

  James felt his heart thudding. The trap for Merry had been set.

  The king sat down to tumultuous applause. Guests clapped, and banged the table with fists or pewter tankards, slopping liquid over the wood. The earl was banging the hilt of a dagger against the table, eyes shining with triumph. Then he turned in James’s direction, and gave a slight nod to Brioc.

  Brioc’s hand closed on James’s arm.

  ‘I think you had better come with me,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Why?’ asked James with all the belligerence he could muster.