A murmur of polite approval rippled through the crowd.
“I can see you’ve drawn a longbow before,” said Bran.
“Once or twice.”
Lord Bran drew and loosed, sending his first shaft after mine, and close enough to the same place that it made no matter. The people cheered their lord with loud and lusty cries.
“My lord,” I said, “I think you have drawn a bow once or twice yourself.”
“The heart this time?” he suggested, as we accepted our second arrows from Iwan.
“If straw men have hearts,” I said, drawing and taking good aim, “his has thumped its last.” This time I sent the shaft up at a slight arc so that it dropped neatly through the centre of the scarecrow and stuck in the dirt behind it.
“Your luck is with you today,” sniffed Siarles as polite applause spattered among the onlookers.
“Not a bit of it,” I told him, grinning. “That was so the lads wouldn’t have to run so far to retrieve my arrow.”
“Then I shall do likewise,” said Bran, and again, drew and aimed and loosed so quickly that each separate motion flowed into the next and became one. His arrow struck the scarecrow in the upper middle and stuck in the ground right beside mine. Again, the people cheered heartily for their young king.
“Head and heart,” I said. “We’ve done for your man out there. What else is left?”
“The pole on which he hangs,” said Iwan, handing over the last arrow.
“The pole then?” asked Bran, raising an eyebrow.
“The pole,” I confirmed.
Well, now. The day was misty and grey, as I say, and the little light we had was swiftly failing now. I had to squint a bit to even see the blasted pole, jutting up like a wee nubbin just over the peak of the scarecrow’s straw head. It showed maybe the size of a lady’s fist, and that gave me an idea. Turning to Bran’s dark-haired lady, I said, “My queen, will you bless this arrow with a kiss?”
“Queen?” she said, recoiling. “I am not his queen, thank you very much.”
This was said with considerable vehemence . . .
Yes, vehemence, Odo.” My scribe has wrinkled his nose like he’s smelled a rotten egg, as he does whenever I say a word he doesn’t understand. “It means, well, it means fire, you know—passion, grit, and brimstone.”
“I thought you said she was the queen?” objects Odo.
“That is because I thought she was the queen.”
“Well, was she or wasn’t she?” he complains, lifting his pen as if threatening to quit unless all is explained to his satisfaction forthwith. “And who is she anyway?”
“Hold your water, monk, I’m coming to that,” I tell him. And we go on . . .
This time we draw together,” said Bran. “On my count.”
“Ready.” I press the bow forward and bring the string to my cheek, my eyes straining to the mark.
“One . . . two . . . three . . .”
I loosed the shaft on his “three” and felt the string lash my wrist with the sting of a wasp. The arrow sliced through the air and struck the pole a little to one side. My aim was off, and the point did nothing more than graze the side of the pole. The arrow glanced off to the left and careered into the brush beyond the tiny field.
Bran, however, continued the count. “Four!” he said, and loosed just a beat after me—enough, I think, so that he saw where my shaft would strike. And then, believe it or not, he matched it. Just as my arrow had grazed the left side of the scarecrow’s pole, so Bran’s sheared the right. He saw me miss, and then missed himself by the same margin, mind. Proud bowman that I was, I could but stand humbled in the presence of an archer of unequalled skill.
Turning to me with a cheery grin, he said, “Sorry, William, I should have told you it was four, not three.” He put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Do you want to try again?”
“Three or four, it makes no matter,” I told him. Indicating the straw man, I said, “It seems our weedy friend has survived the ordeal.”
“Arrows, Gwion Bach!” called Bran, and an eager young fella leapt to his command; two other lads followed on his heels, and the three raced off to retrieve the shafts.
Iwan walked out to examine the scarecrow pole. He pulled it up and brought it back to where we were