Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (43 page)

Gawain dismounted and assisted De Soulis's wife and the boys to the ground. Alec and Iain chatted with him, protesting when Lady Matilda whisked them away, but she soon seated them on the dais. De Soulis and the abbot joined them there, along with the merchants who were to judge the shooting competition.

Laurie came toward him, carrying two wooden cups. "This is excellent Scots ale!" he crowed, handing Gawain a cup, then slurping and sighing.

Gawain sipped. "The archery contestants are here," he said as the knights entered the field. He recognized the archers as knights from Dalbrae. They walked into the clearing, set down their quivers, strung their bows, and chatted with one another. "I hear this is not the usual competition," he remarked.

"And I hear that Sir Soul-less is intent upon his men taking the prize again," Laurie said. "'Tis a gold arrow. Garrison knights from either Elladoune or Dalbrae have won this contest for years, and he is determined to keep it among his own."

"The shot, they say, is toward the bell tower," Gawain said.

"But the tower is collapsed, and still being rebuilt. The scaffold would be in the way."

"'Tis not toward the bell tower itself," an old man standing nearby said. "To that bell up there." He pointed toward the high entrance tower of the church. A sturdy pole had been fixed at the top; From its outwardly projecting end swung a small bronze hand bell.

"Why is that wee bell hanging there?" Laurie asked.

"Tradition," the old man answered. "The archers must shoot straight up and ring the bell. Whoever does will win the prize—the Golden Arrow of Elladoune."

"A curious tradition," Laurie said.

"Long ago, they say, an evil man shot a faery bolt upward into the skies and raised a storm that brought down the first fortress of Elladoune," the man said. "'Tis in remembrance of that old legend that archers try every year to shoot the bell."

Gawain stared upward. "My God," he murmured half to himself. "The faery bolt."

"Aye, in honor of those who drowned and became swans," the old man said. "Though suchlike magic doesna exist, eh?"

Gawain frowned in silence. He noticed several men placing shields, brought in a cart from Dalbrae, at the inner edge of the crowd, like a bright border along the grass.

"What are the shields for?" Laurie asked.

"To protect those closest to the archers," the man said. "The arrows go straight up—and then must come down again! They use blunted tips, but still, those can do damage. Och, look, the last shooter is here. The contest will soon begin."

The final archer walked across the field. Gawain recognized the youth he had seen with Eonan and Teig in the town.

"'Tis the lad who won the silver bells today," the old man said. "None ken who he is—some say he comes from Perth."

"I watched him earlier," Laurie said. "I have never seen such a precise archer in all my life, and consistent with it."

Hearing that, Gawain narrowed his eyes.

The youth loaded his short hunting bow, different from the longbows that the English archers all used. He adjusted his stance and stretched his arms wide in a practice shot. Then, like his fellow contestants, he bent back and tilted the bow toward the sky.

"God save us," Gawain muttered, recognizing the graceful curve of that slender back.

* * *

The moment was nearly upon her. Purpose and vengeance should have kept her cool and deliberate, but her hands shook. Juliana stood to one side with the other competitors and watched another archer take his turn. Like those who had already shot, the man spread his legs wide, leaned back, and aimed upward.

The arrow sailed cleanly past the bell and soared over the top of the abbey tower. The shields went up at the edge of the crowd, but the arrow clattered on the church roof. Applause rose for the archer, who shook his head and walked away.

A tall, blond Dalbrae knight, who had nearly bested her in every contest that day, and had taken time to compliment her politely on her skill, walked toward the church step next.

"De Lisle," the man beside her, another archer, murmured. "He's taken the prize two years now. Ye're talented, lad, but look to the best, just now." He nodded toward the archer.

De Lisle, a tall and powerful-looking man, assessed the shot, then loaded his longbow. He placed one knee on the porch step, angled his leg, and reared back with his bow. His blunted arrow went straight up and chinked against the bell's rim.

Loud gasps rippled out and the shields went up. The archer himself scuttled out of the way. His arrow came down to embed in the grass, just missing the edge of the crowd. He bowed and left the field, nodding again to Juliana, as if to wish her luck.

"Close," a man said beside Juliana. "A shame. The bell must ring clear, or the shot is no good. Your turn, lad."

She walked forward, holding her quiver and bow. Her knees shook and her hands trembled as she withdrew a blunted arrow from her quiver. In a moment of cold fear, she wanted to run, unsure she could do this after all.

What she feared was not the shooting contest, but its aftermath. When she had seen her brothers, and De Soulis, she knew she had to take a stand, no matter the risks.

Her friends were willing to snatch the boys, but the guards were thick here. The rebels would be caught and hung for their crimes. Something else had to be done.

She could not appeal to Gawain, who was obviously following his orders. Soon he would close Elladoune, and leave—perhaps even leave Scotland. She would not go with him. Although she knew she must accept it, she felt empty inside.

Steeling herself against the turmoil and heartache within, she looked up at the little bell suspended from the tower. For now, the bow shot was paramount.

Her hood obscured her view, and she pushed it down, revealing the close-fitting leather cap with long earpieces that covered her hair. She hoped her face was plain enough to stir no interest. If anyone recognized her, no one mentioned it.

The crowd stayed hushed and still, and she ignored them. Nor did she look at her brothers, seated near De Soulis—or at Gawain, standing near the platform. She could not risk giving herself away. Not yet.

Choosing a blunt-tipped arrow, she nocked the bow and spread her feet. Leaning back, swinging the bow upward, she sighted along the arrow shaft.

The little hand bell, over eighty feet above her head, moved slightly in the wind, making the shot enormously difficult. Shooting upward into the trees scarcely ensured her prowess on this one, and she doubted that she had practiced enough.

Widening her stance farther, leaning back, her left arm parallel with the arrow, she began to draw back the string, but hesitated as the bell swayed gently. She felt her body waver slightly. That alone could throw off her aim. The arrow must hit the center hammer to ring it, or the shot would fail.

She remembered what Gawain had told her in the forest: getting down on one knee would give her better stability. The archer ahead of her had nearly taken the prize that way. She knelt on her right knee, extended her left foot, and aimed again.

Hesitating, she sighed out. Too much thinking, she warned herself. Send the arrow upward, straight and true; let it be an extension of sight, will, and instinct. Only then would it succeed.

She lowered the bow, curling forward. Then, on a deep breath, she swung upward until the arrow tip aimed toward the clouds. With a smooth unity of motion, she sighted, tilted, and drew the bowstring, fastening her sight wholly upon the bell.

Heart and soul seemed to move within her, and she released.

* * *

Holding his breath as he watched her, Gawain had never loved her so much as he did in that moment. Grace, she was, and beauty, and perfect skill. The dull male clothing she wore might disguise her—but in his eyes, she shone like an angel.

He knew why she did this. Somehow she thought to gain her brothers back through this means, though he could not guess how.

She stretched her left leg out, her weight on her right knee, forming a triangle of grace and strength. She curled into herself, pausing. The crowd was hushed and expectant.

Ah, love, you can do this,
he thought fervently. He stood without moving, but inside his heart pounded for her, and for what she faced.

She moved then, rising like a wave in a fluid arc, and released the arrow. The shaft soared, and struck the bell. The peal began, clear and true.

Even as the shields went up in the crowd, cheers swelled around her, mingling with the mellow sound of the bell. Juliana rose to her feet and ran backward as the arrow hit, turned, and hurtled downward. It slammed into the earth only inches from where she had been standing.

More cheers and loud applause rose around her. Juliana smiled, tears starting in her eyes as she listened to the wild peal of the little bronze bell. She walked back into the clearing to stand beside her quiver, propping her bow upright in her hand. Turning, she smiled at the audience, searching for the faces she wanted—needed—most to see.

Alec and Iain were hopping up and down on their bench, cheering and smacking their hands together, their heads bright in the sunlight. They must have recognized her by now, she thought, giving them a private little bow.

Gawain smiled, applauding, while Laurie whistled and cheered loudly beside him. Her gaze met Gawain's, and he smiled wider—so dear to her, despite all the hurt. Tears pooled in her eyes.

She looked away, searching the crowd for others—Angus, Lucas, and the rest who waited near the boys, ready to reach out for them as soon as she gave the signal. But if she did that, all would be lost. She had another plan in mind now.

De Soulis rose to his feet, glaring. She did not know if he had recognized her; soon enough, he would. Abbot Malcolm accepted the prize in its leather casing from the frowning sheriff and walked toward her. The abbot of Inchfillan traditionally awarded the Golden Arrow to the winner.

"My dear," Malcolm said, smiling as he held out the leather sheath. "A beautiful shot. And here is our arrow, back again."

She nodded, and took the casing, drawing the arrow free. Of solid gold, it was shaped like a war arrow with a narrow tip, its metal fletching etched to resemble feathers. The gold was cool in her palm and gleamed clean and brilliant in the sunlight as she held it aloft to more cheering.

Then she drew off her cap and shook her braided hair free in a flaxen spill. The cheering was replaced by gasps.

De Soulis, seated on the platform, shouted out something. Laurie took a long step out of the crowd and raised his hands to clap them loudly. Gawain did the same. Eonan and the monks followed suit, along with all the residents of Elladoune and the forest, scattered throughout the crowd. The cheers and shouts arose, even more delighted and joyous than before.

"Oh, dear," Malcolm said, standing beside her. He watched De Soulis, who had turned to one of his knights, pointing toward her and giving an order. "What now? You had best run, my girl."

"Father Abbot." Juliana shoved the Golden Arrow into his hand. The crowd shifted and scattered as the sheriff's men walked toward her. "Go into the church and the safety of the abbey precinct. When the lads are released, hide them in the sanctuary of the church. Please—go!"

He nodded, aware of part of the scheme, although no one knew what she had planned. Turning, he hurried up the church steps.

Juliana reached down to her quiver and snatched a war arrow from it. She nocked the shaft quickly and raised the bow. Angling, she turned her back to the church steps. Only the abbot stood behind her, with a look of pure amazement on his face.

"Walter de Soulis!" she called out. Murmurings erupted in the audience. Some of those who had recognized her still believed she did not speak.

He froze in his chair on the platform. "Ah, the Swan Maiden has a voice after all! What is it you want?" he asked smoothly. "Ready to give us your oath of fealty?"

She narrowed her eyes and trained the arrow tip toward him. "Release my brothers to the abbot's custody," she called out.

De Soulis looked around. "Take her! And guard those boys—do not let them go!" Two knights advanced toward her, and another pair stepped forward to grab her brothers. Alec and Iain cried out and struggled.

"Stop! I will shoot him if I must!" she called out. The knights walking toward her halted uncertainly. She flexed her fingers on the bow wood. "You know I will not miss!"

Silence descended. She felt a hundred and more gazes upon her. Then Gawain stepped out of the crowd and walked toward her.

"Stop," she told him, without taking her gaze from the sheriff. "Please," she begged, when he kept coming.

"Juliana," he said, standing within an arm's length of her. He spoke quietly, so that only she could hear. "You have never shot a man."

"I have never shot a bell before either," she snapped. She changed her tone as he had, private and low. "But I struck it, and I can strike him. And he knows it. That armor he wears will not stop my aim. There are seams and laces, tiny openings—you know I can hit whatsoever I sight." She kept the arrow pointed at De Soulis, who stiffened in his chair and glared at her. Her arms trembled but she did not let them waver.