The Forest Laird(28)

He could not stay long, he told us when he came, for Lord John had need of him that afternoon, but there was ample time for Will to demonstrate his new bow’s power and for Andrew to try it for himself. Try as he would, though, the lad from Moray was incapable of pulling the powerful weapon to its full stretch, and he finally surrendered it to Will and watched ruefully as my cousin sank six arrows into the centre of the farthest target, two hundred paces away.

“How far will it reach fully flexed?” Andrew asked as we went to fetch the arrows.

“Three hundred, probably more,” Will said. “But at full stretch you can lose too many arrows, so I keep my distance to around two hundred. These are target arrows, bear in mind. Barbed warheads and hunting tips make a big difference in flight. The weight of those heads alters everything.”

“You have warheads?” Andrew sounded impressed.

Will shook his head. “Nah, but even hunting barbs make a big difference. Man-killers would be heavier yet, but I have no need of those.”

“Aye … Well, Will Wallace, I have never seen the like of it. I wouldn’t like to have you aiming at me. Not even Siward is that good. But then, Siward is a swordsman above all else. He has a bow, but seldom uses it as you do.” He snorted a laugh. “I wondered yesterday at the shoulders on you, the bulk of you. Now I know it’s from pulling that thing. But what about a sword? Do you use one?”

“Nah!” Will was retrieving his arrows by then, examining each of them for damage before replacing them in his quiver. “Swords are for knights and I’ll never need one. I ha’e my quarterstaff and a good knife. If e’er I’m in a spot where I’m threatened, the knife should be enough to finish anyone who gets by my arrows and my staff.” He grinned. “I’m no’ that violent, ye know.”

I knew that what he had said was true. For all his size and fearsome strength, I had never seen Will lose his temper or provoke a fight with anyone. I had seen him fight savagely, but rarely and never with a weapon, and only in response to the kind of provocation that most people, seeing the sheer size of him, were loath to offer. Yet I find myself examining those words of his years later, wondering whether I might have had any presentiment of what the years ahead would hold for him. But of course I did not. We were innocents in those days, incapable of foreseeing the pain and chaos that lay ahead for all of us.

The remainder of that morning flew by pleasantly, and when the time came for Andrew to return to the Abbey to attend his master, we went with him, all three of us aware that his departure the following day would leave a gap in each of our lives. We walked slowly, our bows slung over our shoulders, as he answered our questions about his life as a knightly squire, and any thoughts Will and I might have had about his lot being one of privileged sloth and luxury were quickly banished. His day-to-day training to become a knight was far more demanding than anything expected of us in the Abbey school.

We had reached the main entrance to the Abbey proper, and it was plain to see that Lord John and his associates were still in conference, for there was little sign of life other than the routine activities of the resident brothers, and so we stood talking quietly in the forecourt, about fifty paces from the main entrance. I have no memory of what we were discussing, for it was Will and Andrew who were speaking while I was merely looking around, but I saw a figure emerge from a side door and start towards us, then stop suddenly and take careful note of us. The man appeared to be both tall and elderly, stooped with age but walking youthfully enough and wearing a long habit of brown wool trimmed with green edging. I might have paid him no more attention had he not stopped so obviously, and the manner in which he stood there peering at us struck me as peculiar.

“Who’s that?” I asked, and both of the others looked to see who I was talking about. I heard Murray inhale sharply.

“Shit!” he said, from the side of his mouth. “It’s Wishart. The Bishop.” He bowed towards the distant figure, and Will and I awkwardly followed his example. The Bishop nodded in acknowledgment, then came sweeping towards us.

“Master de Moray,” he said as he approached, emphasizing the French pronunciation and then continuing in the same language. “I am pleased to see you have been able to find friends with whom to amuse yourself while you are here.” The words were addressed to Andrew, but the Bishop’s eyes were scanning Will and me, taking note of everything about us, including our quarterstaffs and the bows strung from our shoulders. Andrew drew himself up and responded in the same language, gesturing courteously with one hand.