Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

Unstrung, his bow was equal to his own height and was painstakingly carved from a single sapling, the result of years of care and conscientious labour, carefully dried and straightened, worked with heavy linseed oil, then planed and shaved by hand to taper perfectly from its central thickness, which filled up a grown man's palm, to its notched extremities, each the size of a fingertip. My bowstrings were of dried animal gut, stretched wet, then plaited into single strands of great strength. His were of spun-hair twine, braided and waxed. Only our arrows bore comparison, made from straight ash shoots— mine the longer—and fletched with goose feathers, slightly curved, to make the missiles they adorned spin smoothly.

The sun was behind us on our right, more than halfway down the sky, so that it threw our shadows, long and slanting to the left ahead of us. Huw sniffed and grinned at me. "Ready?"

"Aye," I murmured. "But yon centre's a massy ring, and close."

"That's true enough, but none of your boys have hit one yet."

"Then perhaps what they lack is inspiration?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Something smaller, then?"

"Much smaller," I said with a smile.

He thought for a moment, then grinned and reached up to his breast, where he unpinned the kind of brooch I had remarked King Athol wearing, although Huw's was much smaller. It was a simple circle of silver, held by a straight pin. The rim was half the width of my small fingernail, its central space as wide as the distance from the tip of my thumb to the first joint. Turning, Huw threw it to the closest bystander, big Powys.

"Powys," he said. "D'you think your fingers delicate enough to place this thing in the centre of the target there? But mind you don't close the pin! Stick it straight into the target. We'll be putting arrows through the ring and I don't want my fine brooch broken." Few of our young men understood what had been said, but as the giant Powys strode forward and affixed the silver circle to the centre of the first target, a murmur of awe arose around us. When Powys was clear of the line of flight, I turned to Huw with a small nod.

"Your brooch, your shot."

He nodded back and raised his bow immediately, hardly seeming to bother taking aim. The bowstring smacked against the heavy leather arm guard that protected his left arm and as it did so the sound of his arrow smacking home echoed it immediately. There was a shout of acclamation, and I saw the feathered end of his shaft slanted across the distant silver circle. The point was buried in, or close to, the ring itself.

"Fine shot," I said. "Did you hit the brooch?"

"I hope not, for if I did, there's ruined it is. I missed the target, anyway. I think you could insert a thumb between the arrow and the mark. Make sure you do the same, either in or out. Don't hit the brooch, for 'twas a recent gift from one who'd have the hide off me if she knew how I was using it."

I smiled and drew the string back to my ear, aware of lack of wind or distraction. As the tip of my arrow crossed the line of my eye, I loosed and watched the shaft speed straight and true, hearing another roar of admiration.

"That missed, too," I told Huw. "But I think it's closer than yours."

"Well then, we'll check it. One shaft at a time is all we can try here, for more than that will block the view and endanger the brooch. A clean shattering from a single, well-aimed shot I could live with, but to do so carelessly simply because either one of us could not see clearly would be unforgivable." He raised his voice to Powys, who had remained at the far end of the range. "Powys! Which one was closer?"

The big man crossed to the target and leaned close to it, measuring carefully, it seemed, before straightening up and pulling out both arrows.

"Merlyn's," he called back. "But not by much. His to the right and centre, yours to the left and high. I had to use one finger to my thumb's end to mark the difference."

"Stand away then. The next one's mine." As Powys walked away, Huw nocked another arrow and then froze in the half stoop used by all men who pulled these mighty bows, his eyes fixed on the distant target, his bow arm hanging almost loosely by his side, his right arm bent across his middle, holding the bowstring gently. Long moments he stood there, his concentration absolute, and then he straightened, stepping into his shot, bringing the full strength of his upper body into play as his weapon swung up and he pulled and loosed, again without having seemed to aim. I watched the arrow's flight, marvelling at the big man's coordination and speed of delivery. I knew how good I was, and knew that few men were my equal in this arena. Huw Strongarm, however, was one of those few, and I knew that I could never match his speed and ease. This time I was almost unaware of the cheers coming from the watchers. Huw's shot was closer than his first had been. It might even have pierced the centre. We were too far away to know beyond doubt.

Drawing a deep breath once, twice and then a third time, blowing the air from my chest so hard that my cheeks puffed out, I nocked, then willed myself to relax and gather my strength as my eye sought and followed the flight of the arrow I would send towards the target. Then, when I knew my eye was true and my mind satisfied, I released the series of rippling moves that would unleash my thunderbolt, leaning into my pull so that I actually pushed the bow stave forward as I brought the taut string back towards my ear. The shot sped clean once more, and I knew Powys's thumbnail would be employed again. This time, however, it was my arrow that lay farther from the mark.

"One more to decide?"

I grinned and nodded. "But no more than one. I think you have been practising more than I have."

"Practising? I don't practise, man. This is what I do!"

This time, as I watched my opponent prepare for his shot, I listened to the silence around us. Thirty and more grown men all held their breath and watched as I did, enthralled by the rapt attention Huw gave to his task. Again I marvelled at the taut stillness of him, and then at the explosive force as he snapped into motion, seeming to expand simultaneously in all directions as he released the pent-up energy that had sustained his trance. This time big Powys whooped and went capering across to the target, where he peered downward and then spun around, leaping in the air and crying that Huw's shaft was in the ring. I felt the tension drain from me like water.

"Well done, Huw," I said, meaning it sincerely. "That was a master's shot."

He looked at me in surprise. "What, you mean you're giving up?"

"Giving up?" I laughed aloud. "God, man, you pierced the ring! I can't beat that."

"No, but you could equal it. There's room in there for two."

"Not if you hit dead centre, and I'd guess you did."

"No, I hit to the left of centre, almost against the side."

"How can you know that?"

"I saw it! I'm not blind, man."

"By God, then I am, and that's enough for me. You can see so clearly that far away?"

"Aye. You can't?"

"No, and I would wager not one other man can, either, except you." I turned back to Powys, who was still standing by the target. "Powys," I shouted. "Where was the hit?"

"Left of centre. Against the rim," came the reply. I turned again to Huw, my face, I knew, betraying my amazement. But Huw was already shouting to Powys.

"Is there room in the circle for another shaft?"

"Aye!"

Huw looked at me. "Well? Will you shoot, or are you prepared to give up the legend that the Varrus bow is superior to the Pendragon?"

His tone was jocular, but I knew he spoke in earnest, and the gravity of what he said came home to me. For decades now, the great African bow brought to this country by Publius Varrus had remained a thing of legend. This was the bow that had inspired Cymric the bowyer to build the first Pendragon bow, which Ullic the King himself had been the only man with the strength to pull. From that first bow of yew the rest had sprung, so that over a period of short decades the Pendragon had become the most effective fighting force outside Camulod, the fame of their dread weapons spreading far and wide throughout the South and West. Now, in this confrontation that had begun between two old friends, I saw the challenge clearly. If the Varrus bow were found wanting, then the name of Varrus himself would suffer neglect hereafter. I sighed, a gusty sound of anger and sudden frustration.