Longbow Girl (23 page)

A
cross the valley in the Black Castle dungeons, cold, thirsty and hungry, James sat on the bare bench, looking through the bars. He'd had a rough night, trying to sleep on the narrow bench with just the thin blanket to cover him. He wondered what time it was. It
felt
like morning, but he had no way of knowing.

He'd have been afraid if he let himself, but he pushed down the flickers of fear every time they stole up on him.

He thought constantly of escape. If he could just get out of the cell, he knew the castle and all its hiding places, all its secrets; he felt sure he could get to the tunnel, get out. There had to be a way back through the waterfall. After all, Merry had done it.

He couldn't bear sitting still, so he got up and paced. He
peered out of his bars but he couldn't see much. His cell was the furthest from the stairs, so all he could see were the empty cells opposite.

He paused when he heard the heavy step of someone descending the stairs. Any approach meant a chance of interrogation. Or worse.
Or
a chance of escape.

He stood ready, heart pounding, hands loose by his sides.

Aeron, the jailer and watchman, appeared, wheezing slightly. James flexed his fingers, readied himself. He wasn't stronger than the jailer but he was nimbler and faster.

The man stopped before the cell, red-faced, furtive-looking. He was carrying a tankard.

‘Here,' he said roughly, passing it between the bars. ‘Ale, watered down. Kitchens think it's for me.'

James nodded, took it. ‘Thank you!' His throat was so dry his words came out as a croak. He hadn't spoken for so long, his voice sounded odd. He'd only been in the dungeons overnight, had only been deprived of food and drink for perhaps fourteen hours, but it seemed a lot longer than that and he already felt weak. Not so weak that he didn't covertly study the man, note the ring of keys protruding from one of the pockets in his tunic.

‘Don't sit right with me,' said the jailer. ‘Starving you. Not as old as you look, are you?' he asked, squinting through the bars. ‘Not much more than a boy. I had a boy once. Died of the sweating sickness three years past. How many summers are you?'

‘Sixteen,' answered James. ‘Yesterday.'

The jailer gave a snort. ‘Not the best way to mark it, banged
up in the dungeons . . .'

James twisted his face in a wry smile. ‘Not really.' He remembered with a flash of longing his birthdays past: nice dinner in his home, just a floor above but a world away . . . artful presents picked by his family, something fun and practical from Merry, who he was never allowed to see on his actual birthday, just the day after. Today.
If only . . .

‘Drink that,' the man was saying. ‘I'll have something else for you shortly.'

He returned fifteen minutes later with a steaming bowl. He pushed it under the door in the gap between the floor and the base of the iron bars.

James bent, picked it up. Some kind of gruel. ‘Thank you,' he said, smiling. He ate it quickly, gratefully. He didn't care how it tasted. It was food and it was warm. He pushed the bowl back to the man. ‘Thank you,' he said again. ‘It's Aeron, isn't it?'

‘It is. And say nothing of it. Act groggy when they come for you, to question you next.'

‘When d'you think they will? What time is it now?'

‘Mid-morning. They're all busy with the king's tourney, so who knows? After that I reckon.'

‘And that's tomorrow?' asked James.

‘So I hear.' With a nervous glance behind him, Aeron took the evidence of his meal away.

James fell silent. Tomorrow Merry would come. He could only pray she would win the tourney – and then run.

Where was she, he wondered. Had she managed to sleep,
knowing what was coming, what she would have to do, before an audience of earl, countess and king?

God, he wished he could get out of here, for a million reasons, but to see Merry, to watch her compete, to help her . . .

James wondered about Longbowman Owen. Did he have any inkling, any sixth sense that someone would come to save him and his family, or was he lost in despair? It seemed the latter, for the man didn't speak. James had occasionally heard the low rumble of a word or two from the far end of the dungeons when the jailer gave him food and ale, but that was it.

‘Don't give up hope,' he called out now.

‘Who's this offering me succour?' came the faint reply, contempt in the voice. ‘The fake Lord James? The thief?'

‘So they say,' replied James.

‘Tomorrow the king will call on an Owen to come forward and honour our pledge,' said Owen. ‘And I will not be there.' He cursed bitterly in Welsh. ‘One day I shall avenge my family on the de Courcys. And God help them when I do.'

James felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was not an idle threat, issued in the heat of the moment. This was the vow of a man who thought he was about to lose everything.

‘An Owen will come forward,' James said. ‘An Owen
will
stand for you.'

There was an electric silence. Then a question: ‘Who are you?'

‘A friend, strange as it may seem. And don't ask me more.
Just wait and see.'

‘Someone will come forward? A
longbowman
?'

‘No,' answered James, voice full with pride. ‘A
longbow girl
.'

There was a laugh of sheer disbelief. ‘Now that I
would
like to see,' came the reply.

Just you wait, then
, thought James, but he didn't answer. Time would answer for him.

He sat back on the bench once more and stared at the bars. When would his chance of escape come? He raked his fingers through his hair. He needed a weapon. An iron bar would be good, but he'd already yanked and pulled at the bars in the vain hope that one might come loose. Now he patrolled his cell, trailing his hand over the walls. He paused when his finger caught on a rough stone. He'd felt it give. He stopped, glanced around, then started to dig and scratch at the surrounding mortar, gouging away with his nails.

He didn't know how long it took him, he didn't care, time was all he had locked up in his cell, but finally he pried it loose. He pulled it from the wall and examined it. It was small, only about four inches long and two across, but it fit perfectly in his hand. It was smudged with blood from his skinned fingertips. He didn't notice. He felt exultant. Now he had a weapon and he felt the odds shift, just fractionally, maybe enough, in his favour. He pushed the stone down inside his waistband, hidden by the pleats of his doublet and he waited for the next day to dawn.

M
erry stood barefoot on the cold floor of the cottage, looking out at the valley of Nanteos. The sun rose, tinting the sky pink. There were only a few times in your life, she thought, when the stakes got really high. You could live an active life or a passive life, face competition of all sorts, whether you sought it or not, but to actually enter the arena . . . to compete for the highest of stakes . . . Whatever happened, she knew she would not be the same person when she walked out of it.

She picked up her glass eye and pushed it into place. The skin around it was unblemished, so unless someone came right up and peered at her, it looked as if she had two unmarred, functioning eyes. As a disguise, she hoped it would work. She saw no point in hiding her hair. Up close, no one would mistake her for a man. And her hair had been plaited
and pinned up when she'd had her encounter with the countess.

She dressed quickly in her skins. Over them she pulled on the archer's clothes.

Mair came in with her pail of milk. She looked better than she had yesterday, but still her smile was tight. ‘Morning, Merry.' Her voice was tremulous. ‘Did you get much sleep?'

‘Morning, Mair. Went out like a light. Thanks to your potion.' Merry put her hand on the healer's arm. ‘How are you?' There was a nasty bruise purpling her temple.

‘Don't get to my age without suffering a few knocks,' Mair replied, smiling. ‘I've a tough head. Come on, let's eat.'

She poured some milk into the pan suspended over the fire, her long white hair streaming down her back.

‘I've no—'

‘Appetite,' interrupted Mair. ‘I know. But you need all your strength today, so you
will
eat.'

Merry sat down, resigned. Mair put a steaming bowl of stew in front of her.

‘Let it cool while you drink this,' she said, pouring out a stream of pale liquid from a jug on the table.

‘What is it?' asked Merry, wrinkling her nose.

‘An infusion of fennel to give you appetite, mugwort to ward off evil, sage to strengthen your nerves and nettle seeds to give you energy. Sweetened with royal jelly, food for the queen.'

‘That covers all bases,' said Merry with a smile. ‘Thank you, Mair.'

She took the mug and sipped. Felt the warmth slide down
her throat. There seemed to be something in it to give her courage too, for she felt better when she'd finished it.

She turned to the stew and spooned it up. The cottage was silent. No wind today, just the pale sun rising in a clear sky. Perfect conditions for arrows to fly straight and true to the target. Perfect conditions for the tourney.

Merry and Mair waited until they saw the crowds gathering across the valley. Great white pavilions had gone up, and there was the sound of hammering, as if arenas were being created. There also seemed to be a kind of raised area, like a dais, or a stage.

‘Don't want to be there longer than you need. Not what anyone would call inconspicuous, are you?' Mair asked, nervously twisting her bonnet in her bony hands.

Merry was all too aware of the bounty on her head, of the risk of the countess recognizing her, but she hated to wait. Nerves fraying, adrenalin pumping, she felt cooped up in the cottage. She wanted to walk out of the door and let it begin. She knew Mair was right, but as the sun rose to what she thought was eleven o'clock, Merry could stand it no longer.

‘We must go,' she said. ‘I don't want to miss the king's challenge.'

‘The king'll probably be sleeping off last night's feast,' said Mair with a pinched look. She paused, eyed Merry, looked out of her door again.

‘But you're right. We don't want to miss it.'

Merry took her bow and her arrow bag. She checked that all
three strings were there, coiled safely. She slung the bag over her shoulder, took the bow in her left hand.

She picked up her waterproof backpack. If all went well, she'd be needing her head torch for the swim home. And she had her catapult in there too. She hoped she wouldn't need it but it was a weapon and it was portable and it gave her comfort.

‘Can you keep this for me till after the tourney?' she asked Mair. ‘I need it for my journey back.'

‘Of course.' Mair took it. ‘I'll hide it in my basket.' She eyed the lime-green neon stripes. ‘It's a bit . . . outlandish.'

Merry laughed, in spite of her nerves.

‘When it's over we'll have to find each other quickly. I must leave straight away.'

‘I'll find you,' said the healer. ‘You just do what you must, then go,' she added softly. ‘Back to
your
time. Back to safety.'

Merry only prayed that she could.

Together they walked down the hill from Ty Gwyn.

‘D'you think he's around, that man who attacked me?' asked Mair.

Merry wanted to lie, to give Mair peace of mind, to suggest that Parks was long gone, but that would do the healer no favours. She needed to remain vigilant. ‘I suspect Parks is watching the tourney,' she replied. ‘It'd be too great a spectacle for him to want to miss it. He might be hiding in the forest, watching from a distance, but it wouldn't surprise me if he'd stolen some clothes to blend in. He'd be just another face in the crowd.'

Mair frowned. ‘I'll tell everyone around that a stranger attacked me. After the tourney I'll organize a hunt,' she said, her voice low with fury.

Merry glanced at Mair. She was loved in the community, had friends who would hunt for Parks. It made her feel easier.

They walked down to Nanteos Farm. Rhiannon, Angharad and Gawain must have been watching and waiting, for they came straight out to join them. Angharad held out something in her palm.

‘It's a four-leaf clover,' she said. ‘For luck.'

Merry felt tears burn her eye. She blinked and knuckled them away, then stooped and kissed Angharad's cheek. ‘Thank you,
cariad
. I'll keep it safe.' She pushed it down into the deep pocket of her tunic.

‘Spent hours looking this morning, she did,' said Rhiannon. ‘Wouldn't give up till she found one.'

Angharad smiled and Merry felt another surge of emotion. She seemed to go from being numb to being ambushed with emotions.

Soon they reached the earl's lands. The smell of wood smoke and cooking meat filled the air. The crowds grew thicker as they approached the tourney ground.

If Merry felt self-conscious, she did not show it. She walked with her head high, ignoring the stares of those they passed: the farmers, the men-at-arms, the women and the children. There were mutterings, but Merry supposed they thought she was carrying the bow for her father or for her husband. Why else would she have a bow? Merry smiled. Let them wait, let
them see . . .

There were so many people, so many animals. Both she and Mair scanned the faces, checking for Parks, but they saw no sign of him. That gave Merry no comfort. She felt sure he'd be here, somewhere, watching. And waiting . . .

A commotion broke out ahead. The crowds parted to reveal a line of grooms leading high-stepping, overexcited destriers towards them. Huge, powerful horses, they were bred to carry an armoured knight into battle. At a gallop, while wearing armour of their own. They were proud, fearsome-looking beasts with darting eyes and bunched muscles. Merry grasped Angharad's hand, pulled her well clear of the horses' snaking heads and stamping hooves.

It was to improve this breed that Henry VIII had ordered the destruction of the wild ponies he deemed undersized, thought Merry, with such fateful consequences for her ancestor, who had rushed to their defence. She remembered the pony hunt she'd seen . . . Longbowman Owen's protests, his doomed attempts to reason with the earl and king. His brutal silencing. She flicked a glance at the castle, where he languished in the dungeons just a few hundred yards away,

A pack of eight wolfhounds straining on leads dragged their handlers in the destriers' wake. Merry watched them pass, suppressing a shudder. It was no stretch of her imagination to picture these dogs chasing down and killing wolves.

Cheers and shouts erupted from a fenced-off arena where, in her time, the laurel bushes grew. Inside, raucous men in fine clothes were throwing an iron bar, competing to see who
could lob it the furthest.

The five of them walked closer to the castle, weaving through the thickening crowds lining up by the food stalls that sheltered under the white pavilions. The Tudor version of fast food, thought Merry. Toffee apples, chicken legs, hot bread and what smelt like mulled wine. Her stomach turned. She thought she was going to be sick. She walked away from the stalls, breathing deeply, willing her stomach under control. It seemed to work. Just.

And then Merry saw a group of powerful-looking men striding towards an arena, marked off by ropes and poles. They were carrying unstrung bows. Some carried quivers of arrows that swung from loose belts. Most of them had arrow bags like hers.

Time to go. The crowds were gathering outside the arena. Rhiannon hugged her fiercely. Angharad stood on tiptoe and kissed Merry's cheek.

‘Thank you,' she said, eyes full of sweetness, ‘for all you have done for us. For all you will do.'

Merry pulled the girl close, hugged her and Gawain too.

Mair stepped forward. ‘Goodbye, longbow girl. Be safe.'

Merry hugged the old woman, breathed in her scent of herbs and wool.

Then she turned and she followed the archers. She gripped her bow, felt its power flood through her. She shut down her mind to all but the task ahead.

Shoot. Win. Escape.