Longbow Girl

by Linda Davies

  Merry sized up her competitors. All the men were taller than her, most of them around six foot.

  She guessed they were farmers or tradesmen, carpenters, blacksmiths and labourers. Some of them might have been full-time archers employed by a lord, perhaps by the earl himself. Either way, they would have been skilled archers. Henry VIII’s royal edict commanded that all such men practised weekly on their bows.

  There was one man who stood out among the more humbly dressed competitors. A gentleman who wore elaborate clothes. That was unusual. Gentlemen or aristocrats preferred to be men-at-arms, swordsmen, or else to fight from the back of a destrier.

  Not that the clothes had improved the gentleman’s manners. The look he sent Merry was one of contempt. Merry looked away, but not before she’d registered the coldness, the flash of hatred, the barely contained violence. Another Professor Parks. Maybe he was an archer because he liked killing so much …

  The marshal strode in front of all the men, ensuring they stood behind a white line, marked out on the grass with lime.

  He moved off to the side, taking up position a few feet behind the bowmen.

  ‘Ready your bows!’ he cried.

  The competitors stepped their bowhand foot forward.

  ‘Nock!’ called the marshal.

  Arrows were slid into position. The men bent, readying themselves.

  ‘Mark!’

  All eyes were raised and focussed on the distant targets.

  ‘Draw!’

  The archers pulled back their bowstrings, straightening as they did so.

  ‘Loose!’ yelled the marshal, and the arrows flew. They hissed softly, like deadly rain.

  Merry watched them, eye flicking from archer to target. The commands came again in quick succession: ‘Nock, mark, draw, loose.’ Some competitors flaunted their skills at rapid shooting, but with only three arrows each, it was a showman’s gesture and not very effective in most cases. Some competitors were slower and the marshal glowered at them. Merry wondered if he took away points for dithering.

  The contestants were a mixed bag. Some were very good; most were average. In heat one, the clear winner was a small, wiry man just a bit taller than Merry. He hadn’t spoken much, just got on with his business with an air of ruthless concentration. Some of the bigger, beefier men were powerful but not accurate, hitting only the outer edges of the target.

  When all the arrows had been shot, the competitors stood back, some laughing and joking with each other, others gazing at the row of targets where the marshal prowled, scribbling on parchment with a quill pen.

  He scowled at his jottings, eyed the targets again, then strode back to the competitors.

  He picked out five men. There was cheering and shouting and back-slapping and dejection.

  The losers trooped out of the arena. The next competitors stepped forward. Nock, mark, draw, loose. The arrows flew. Merry’s heart began to beat faster. This time, the winner was the gentleman. Five competitors were selected for the second round. Clearly, the marshal thought that Merry would never get that far. Time to upset his numbers.

  ‘Heat three!’ he called out. ‘Merry Owen.’

  Merry stepped forward. She was dimly aware of applause, of catcalls, of shouts, but nothing intruded above the roaring of blood in her ears.

  She positioned herself behind the line, rolled her shoulders and took a few deep breaths.

  ‘We’re all ready when you are,’ said the marshal, as if it were a great joke.

  Merry selected an arrow, eyed her target. She felt a cool focus flood her veins.

  ‘Ready your bow!’ cried the marshal.

  Merry took her stance, then, listening to the commands of the marshal, she nocked her arrow, bent from her waist, marked the target, drew back her bow and loosed. The crowd had fallen silent. The only sound she could hear was the whisper of her bowstring and the hiss of her arrow. It seemed to take long seconds to fly home to its target. Merry saw it hit and lodge in the black ring, just left of the white centre.

  She chose another arrow, let fly. It lodged in the black ring again, just to the right of the white centre. Then she took out her third arrow, aimed, loosed. Triangulation. Inner white! She was sure of it.

  She turned, walked back from the line as the crowd, which had been stunned into silence, started to clap and shout. She didn’t smile. Not yet. She just stood and waited. She was aware of the marshal staring at her, mouth hanging open, revealing stumps of discoloured teeth. She just looked at the mountains rising behind the castle, tried to keep at bay the shouts and the noise and the attention. She saw a pair of red kites circling high, perhaps drawn by the archers, associating the war bows with carnage and corpses on which to feed.

  ‘Well!’ stated the marshal. His voice came out high-pitched. He cleared his throat and started again. ‘Well … it would appear that Merry Owen will go through to round two.’

  More noise from the crowd.

  Merry walked forward to retrieve her arrows. She passed the marshal. He looked at her with sheer, unadulterated surprise.

  ‘In round two,’ he declared as if for her benefit, ‘we move ten yards back and each competitor will take it in turns so that we might better enjoy the spectacle. So we might better appreciate their skills.’

  The atmosphere became even more charged. The men glanced at each other, each thinking, it seemed to Merry, of the ten gold coins, of the fortune awaiting the winner. But for her, there was even more at stake than a purse of gold.

  The ten other competitors all took their turns. The clear winner so far was the gentleman. He had two arrows in the black ring and one in the inner white.

  Then it was Merry’s turn. She walked forward. The crowd cheered. The men watched. Gone was the air of ridicule, amusement or pity directed her way.

  She waited till it fell quiet, then chose her first arrow. She nocked it, drew back her bow to its fullest extension. She needed all its power now to make the extra distance and to maintain accuracy. She felt and sensed the almost unbearable tension in the wood. Please don’t break, she prayed silently. Please give me just a few shots more. She let out her breath, loosed the arrow. The bow held strong. The arrow flew to the target. Black circle.

  Second arrow. She had to do better. No thinking, no worrying, just instinct and skill. She heard the ancient commands, in her head, in her body and somewhere deep inside that must have been her soul. She pulled in a breath, released it smoothly as she loosed the arrow, as she watched it home in. Inner white! She felt the first flush of euphoria, pushed it down, selected her third and final arrow. She let it fly. Closed her eye, breathed, waited. The crowd roared. She opened her eye, looked at the target. Even from this distance she could see: dead centre of the inner white.

  Only then did she smile.

  The marshal hurried up to the target, eyed the arrows and smiled back.

  ‘We have an outright winner,’ he declared. ‘With one first circle and two golds, Merry Owen wins!’

  ‘Wait!’ cried a voice.

  All eyes flicked to the earl, rising to his feet beside the king.

  Merry’s heart began to race again. Was he going to challenge her victory? Arrest her?

  ‘With the blessing of our noble Majesty, the King Henry, I would like to make the competition even more interesting,’ the earl declared.

  Merry held her breath.

  He raised his hand. In it was clasped a stave of wood. ‘All archers are familiar with splitting the wand.’

  Merry sucked in a breath. She’d heard of it. She’d never done it. Never tried.

  The gentleman was calling back. ‘Indeed, my Lord.’

  ‘And you? Merry Owen?’

  It felt to Merry that everything depended on this, that if she didn’t win, the earl would manipulate events so that it was deemed that the pledge had not been honoured, that the Owens’s lands must be forfeited. To him. She felt a flare of pure, cold hate. She kept it from her face with great effort.

  What could sh
e say? We don’t do it in the twenty-first century?

  ‘Perhaps you could show us … My Lord,’ she added, as if as an afterthought.

  There was a stunned silence, then a bark of laughter. Merry glanced down the dais. It was the king himself who laughed, and soon the crowd was laughing, but the earl remained steely-faced.

  ‘Very droll,’ he drawled when the laughter faded. ‘Marshal!’ he yelled.

  He handed over the stave of wood to the marshal, who scurried off to ram it into the ground beside the central target. Merry reckoned it was two inches across.

  The blood roared again in her ears. But rage got in the way. She needed to find her calm. She sought out a single blade of grass, looked at it until she saw nothing else. Then she was aware of her name being called.

  ‘Merry Owen!’ the marshal was shouting.

  ‘Line up here, beside Bonneville.’

  Merry took her position beside the gentleman.

  ‘You shall each shoot on my command. Bonneville, you first.’

  The gentleman nodded, glanced briefly at Merry with his cold eyes. Then he turned away, readied himself, drew his bow.

  Merry heard the marshal’s commands, saw the single arrow fly. The wand of wood stood intact.

  She breathed again. Her turn.

  She stepped forward, glad of her armour-piercing bodkin-tipped arrows. If she hit the wand dead centre, the metal would split it with ease. If …

  She reached back into her bag, selected an arrow. As always, she checked it.

  She heard the commands, a distant echo of the words she said in her heart. She loosed her arrow.

  And her luck ran out.

  There was a loud crack as Merry’s bow broke in half. She felt the blow of the upper limb scything back against her temple, just above her ear, and then there was silence and nothingness as she lost consciousness and fell to the ground.

  Her pulse beat once, twice, a third time; then her world exploded again as she came round. She found herself lying on the grass, the lower part of the broken bow still in her hands. She heard the crowd roaring. She opened her eye. She pushed herself up. Men were rushing up to her, talking at her. She pushed them away so she could see. She was dizzy, her vision clouded. She could feel blood running down her cheek. She walked on unsteady feet towards the other end of the arena, looking for the wand.

  And then she saw it, lying on the grass. In two pieces. Like her bow.

  She felt a wild surge of emotion: euphoria, relief, justice. She turned, sought out the earl. He was standing on the dais, his face rigid with rage.

  The crowd fell silent as the king got to his feet. ‘Well,’ he declared. ‘Come forth, Merry Owen.’

  Merry brushed the blood from her cheek and walked towards the dais.

  ‘I believe,’ said the king, ‘that this is yours.’ He took a purse from his pocket and threw it into the air. Merry’s arm shot up and she caught it to more roars from the crowd and a smile from the king. She smiled back. Her head was thumping. She felt a sudden terror. She could feel the countess’s eyes upon her. She wanted to get away.

  ‘I think we have seen well enough the prowess of Merry Owen,’ said the king. ‘She is indeed a worthy longbow girl!’ he announced to thunderous applause. He looked from the crowd back to Merry, his eyes solemn.

  ‘Hear me!’ he declaimed, chest thrust forward, head high. ‘I declare that the pledge given by the Owen family to the Black Prince has been honoured this day.’ He beamed at Merry, beneficent, all powerful, happy in his grace. ‘Your cottage and your lands remain in Owen hands for this generation. And if the generations to come produce longbowmen and women as fine as you, then your farm shall be yours for ever.’

  Merry gave a huge smile. There was nothing the earl nor countess could do now. The king had given his word publicly. She bowed low, mouthed thank you, Your Majesty at the king. She saw the genuine appreciation in his eyes. She knew that once he had been a talented sportsman before a jousting fall from his horse damaged his leg and arguably his brain.

  She risked a quick glance at the earl and countess. The earl’s lips formed a bloodless line, so pursed in rage they were almost white. The countess looked furious, but more ominously, she looked curious. She tilted her pretty head side to side, eyeing Merry from different angles. She leant across to her husband and said something. His eyes narrowed and he got up.

  Time to go.

  Merry bowed again and rushed from the arena as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her. She was concussed. She knew that, could do nothing but keep moving. Applause rang in her ears. Several of the archers came forward to congratulate her, delaying her.

  She struggled through the crowds, seeking Mair and Rhiannon and Gawain, and especially Angharad, the sister she had never had. She wanted to see her one more time even though her instincts were screaming at her to get away.

  Suddenly she saw her nipping through the crowds. The girl leapt at her, almost knocking her over.

  Merry caught her, grabbed on to her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Angharad asked, eyes wide, looking with horror at the blood that dripped down Merry’s face, making a dark trail down her tunic.

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Merry. ‘Just a cut.’

  Angharad burst into tears. ‘You did it! You did it!’ she sobbed, and then Merry was crying and laughing with her. She pulled her close, thinking This is the last time I’ll see you, little girl. Then Rhiannon was there and Gawain, and standing by their side, beaming, almost bursting with pride, was Mair.

  ‘You did it!’ she declared, eyes shining.

  Merry grinned back. ‘I did. Thanks to you. Thanks to Farmer Evans. Apologize for wrecking his bow.’

  Mair nodded. ‘I will. You were lucky. Nasty cut, but you were lucky.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ replied Merry.

  ‘You’ll be going then …’ the healer continued.

  Merry nodded. ‘Yes. I must. And this time I won’t come back. I cannot do that to my own people again. I cannot risk it.’ Merry paused. The only thing she hadn’t done was free Longbowman Owen, but she could see no way to do that.

  Mair was handing her the backpack. ‘Here, take it; put my shawl over it and no one will see.’

  Merry slipped it on, tightened the straps so the pack lay smooth against her back; then she covered all trace of it with Mair’s shawl.

  ‘Thank you, Mair. For everything.’ She looked at her ancestors. ‘Be well. I’ll pray for the release of your husband,’ she turned to the children, ‘of your father.’

  They nodded gravely. Around them the noise of the tourney resumed as some new feat of physical prowess was performed.

  ‘See to that cut, won’t you,’ said Mair softly.

  Merry nodded. ‘I will.’ Lightning had struck twice but she felt like she’d got away with it. It could have been her other eye.

  With one last glance at her ancestors and Mair, Merry hurried off through the crowds. People ebbed and flowed around her, slowing her down. And then a hand reached out and grabbed her arm.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said a voice.

  Inside the Black Castle, down in the dungeons, the jailer came running. His face was red with exertion and he couldn’t keep his huge hands still.

  ‘Glyndŵr!’ he yelled, waving through the bars. ‘You’re saved! An Owen came. The pledge was answered!’

  James felt a surge of joy.

  ‘And the most incredible thing!’ continued the jailer, his voice rising ever higher. ‘A girl it was! A longbow girl!’

  There was a curse of amazement, a laugh of disbelief and a shout of triumph.

  ‘Tell me. Tell me everything!’ roared the longbowman.

  In wonderfully exhaustive detail, Aeron the jailer told his tale, a tale he would repeat many times in the decades to come, but no retelling would ever compare with this first rendition to the man who thought he had lost everything.

  In his cell, gripping the bars, peering out as far as he could see, James listened.
>
  ‘Duw,’ Longbowman Owen said at the end, after peppering Aeron with at least a dozen questions. ‘Who is she, this longbow girl?’

  ‘That’s what we all want to know, isn’t it?’ agreed Aeron.

  Silent in his cell, James just smiled.

  The hand gripped her arm and Merry gasped. Another hand closed around her other arm and she could feel the point of a dagger pressed against her side.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ asked the voice.

  Merry turned very carefully. A richly dressed, black-haired man with a viciously scarred face held the dagger to her ribs. Another man, her puppy-faced heckler, stood to the other side, smiling as if they were all best friends.

  ‘Make a scene and I shall gut you. Do you understand?’ the scarred man continued.

  Merry looked into the hard eyes. If she tried to escape these two men, then she felt with utter certainty that the scarred man would kill her. For all his fancy clothes, he was very obviously a man of war.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m going to remove my dagger from your ribs now and you are going to walk with me as if all is quite normal,’ continued Scarface. Merry could smell his rank breath as he bent down to whisper in her ear.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘To the Black Castle.’

  ‘The countess would like to meet you,’ said the other man with a brief, mocking grin.

  Through the crowds they walked. They were even stopped a few times by men and women wishing to congratulate the longbow girl. Merry forced a smile. She had saved her ancestors. Would the price be the gallows? She had to believe she could and would escape. Fight clever, said her father’s voice. Her new voice.

  As soon as they were inside the walls of the Black Castle, Merry’s captors stopped grinning and ceased pretending to be charming escorts. They marched her to the servants’ staircase. Down to the dungeons, to the deathly cold.

  ‘Aeron!’ bellowed Scarface as they descended the stairs. ‘Another one for you.’

  A huge man wearing leggings and a long tunic emerged. He looked like a blacksmith, thought Merry, with his big, scarred hands. His mouth dropped open.