Longbow Girl (20 page)

T
he fire spat and crackled in the Black Castle's huge hearth. A sudden wind roared down the chimney, whipping up the flames.

Oh, Merry
, thought James, his stomach churning.
What have you done?

The countess peered at James, concern creasing her beautiful face.

‘You look ill, kinsman!'

James improvised. ‘It's my head. When I was attacked I fell and hit it.'

‘You are concussed!' declared the countess, alarmed. ‘What year is it?'

‘Er.' James tugged at his eyebrow. ‘Oh God, I don't know.'

‘You are indeed concussed,' pronounced the countess. ‘The
year is 1537.'

Ah
, thought James, summoning up his history.

‘It's coming back,' he said. ‘His Majesty dissolved the monasteries last year, didn't he?'

The countess nodded, looked wary but pleased. ‘The Suppression Act, it is called.'

James gave a wry smile. He'd bet that the de Courcys had benefitted from that as King Henry shared a little of his priceless plunder.

‘He had a busy year,' continued James, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘His Majesty also beheaded his wife, Anne Boleyn, last year, if I remember rightly.'

The countess pursed her lips. ‘We don't speak of that.'

‘And more happily,' James continued quickly, ‘His Majesty recently married Jane Seymour.'

He could have added that Jane Seymour, the new queen, would go on to die in childbirth in October of this year, but then he'd be hanged and eviscerated as a traitor for voicing terrible thoughts.

‘Your memory is good now, I see. And you are well informed,' noted the countess, with just the slightest tone of wariness.

Best to appear friendly and very slightly stupid, the hapless victim of too much aristocratic interbreeding, thought James.

‘Oh, you can thank my mother for that,' he declared, waving his hand. ‘She likes to keep up on all the gossip.' That much was true. The delivery of her weekly copy of
Hello!
was a treasured moment.

‘Gossip can be dangerous,' cautioned the countess, eyes hardening with a sharp intelligence.

Enemy
, James reminded himself.

‘Now,' said the countess, breaking into a broad smile in a dizzying change of mood, ‘tell me about your home. I've never been to France, though I'd love to.'

Was she testing him, wondered James, or just curious?

‘Well, it has a moat like this, with carp,' he began with forced enthusiasm, ‘though my mother would never eat them, and it has twelve turrets,' he continued confidently. The previous year he and his family had gone to a chateau in Normandy. His father had said that it had once belonged to the French branch of the de Courcys.

‘It is built of . . .'

James spent ten minutes describing Chateau de Clermont in great detail before being interrupted by the sound of a horn: far off but insistent.

‘His Majesty!' yelled the countess, springing to her feet. ‘I must ensure that all is ready.'

James stood too. A wave of adrenalin rushed through him. The king would arrive. Declare the tournament. And Merry would come. The one-eyed witch, the horse thief, would be walking right into a trap.

James followed the countess into the Great Hall. Men-at-arms, rapiers bouncing at their thighs, materialized out of doorways. Maids poured out of the servants' areas, scurrying through the Great Hall with panicked gestures. The great tide bore James out of the castle, into the courtyard where maids
and grooms and courtiers and countess were forming up, ready to greet their king.

Trumpets sounded. Drums beat. Hooves stamped as a cavalcade of horsemen came clattering over the drawbridge.

Finely dressed courtiers in scarlets and blues and greens rode high-stepping destriers with extravagant manes and lavish trappers. Servants in dull-coloured clothes were being dragged along by wolfhounds on heavy chains. Huge gold-and-red pennants bearing images of unicorns, leopards and falcons fluttered in the breeze.

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.

M
erry 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.

T
he 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 approach.

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.'