The Forest Laird(44)

I noticed strangers among the usual gathering of villagers, including a noisy group of about ten young people of both sexes and an unknown bowman who stood apart from the crowd and seemed to be the centre of attention. It was obvious from the height and width of both him and his long, broad bow that he was a wandering archer, looking to win money from the local marksmen.

“Shit,” Will muttered. “I suppose I’d better see what James wants. I could do without knowing, though, for I’m guessing at it already and I don’t like it.”

We waited for the other man to reach us.

“What is it, James? I have to get back to work.”

Laithey wasted no time in telling us. The stranger’s reputation had preceded him, for he had been making the rounds of the neighbouring villages and was far more proficient at his art than he professed to be. He would compete, appear to falter, lose several bouts, and then, on the point of paying his losses, would ask for one more match at double the stakes, at which point he would rally, and finish up with deadly precision, winning everything.

Will shrugged. “What do you want of me, James? You know I don’t shoot for money. This fellow will take one look at my bow and walk away.”

Laithey nodded. “He might. But he’s awfu’ cocksure and pleased wi’ himsel’. He likely thinks he can beat you.”

“How does he even know me? I’ve never seen him before.”

“Some of the fellows saw ye goin’ into the howff. They were talkin’ about ye, and the fellow was listenin’. And besides, if he walks away now, he’ll take every coin in the village wi’ him, for they’re a’ in his pocket already.”

Will sighed and looked sideways at me, rolling his eyes. “Who are those other folk, the young ones?”

“Just visitors, frae Paisley,” Laithey told him. “They’re here to visit young Jessie Brunton—her sisters and their friends.”

Will sighed. “Well,” he said at length, “I’ll offer him a match, but I doubt he’ll take it. If he’s won everything already I’m surprised he’s still here.”

“Don’t be. He was interested in what the lads had to say about ye. That’s why he’s waitin’.”

“Then he’s wasting his time. I’ve no money other than a groat or two.”

Laithey, who was known for both sobriety and thrift, grinned, for he had admired Will’s skill for years. “I’ll put up the coin,” he said. “Just this once, to see you beat this thief. And when you win, I’ll gi’e back the winnings to the fools who lost them.”

“You will? I’ll hold you to that. But what if I lose?”

The other man shrugged, still smiling. “You willna. But ’gin you do, I’ll take it as God’s judgment on me for gambling.”

Will dipped his head. “So be it. Let’s try him, then. But I doubt he’ll take the wager.”

The stranger, who introduced himself as plain Robertson, agreed to Will’s challenge with apparent reluctance, eyeing the long leather case that hung from his shoulder. But as the one being challenged, he had the setting of the terms, and it was immediately obvious he knew what he was doing. The most effective range of the yew longbow was between two hundred and two hundred and twenty paces, shooting at a six-inch target centre or a similarly thick fence post; beyond that distance, the yew archer tended to lose accuracy, and at lesser ranges the arrow flight was constrained by the bow’s huge strength, and the inaccuracy became even greater.

“Targets,” Robertson said. “Split posts, three inches thick, two feet high.” He watched narrow-eyed as Will considered that before nodding slowly, but then he could not hold back a wolfish grin as he continued. “At a hundred.”

It was an outrageous proposition, the short distance and halfwidth targets putting Will at an enormous disadvantage with his great yew bow. Will pursed his lips, appearing to think long and hard and be on the point of refusal, but then he sniffed and nodded. “Agreed. Even bets?”

“What? D’ye take me for a fool? Against that thing?” Robertson nodded at the longbow’s case as though he were not convinced that he had already crippled Will’s chances of winning. “Two to one. On your side.”

Will gazed for a long time at Robertson’s own bow, a flat, layered weapon of wood and sinew that flared to a hand’s breadth wide above and below the grip before tapering to the ends. Five feet long, I estimated. Will nodded, stone faced. “Accepted,” he said. “Set them up.”

Laithey shouted the terms to the waiting crowd, and a cluster of men quickly set about making the targets from the pile of six-inch posts at the edge of the butts, some of them splitting the lengths of wood into quarters and others hammering the stakes firmly into the ground until they were of uniform height, their freshly split wedged faces towards the archers. The crowd along the edges of the range grew denser as others were attracted by the activity. To my eyes the target stakes, barely projecting above the ungrazed pasture of the narrow strip, were barely visible from a hundred paces, and for the first time I could remember, I found myself doubting Will’s ability to hit them, recalling his missed shot at the sick doe earlier.