snorted and scampered across the courtyard to chase down the target. He loosened the string at the neck of the sack, spilling all but a spoonful of dry corn out onto the grass. Reduced in size to a boll no bigger than a child’s fist, Sparrow rehung it and, for an added test of skill, gave it a heave so that it careened back and forth like a drunken pendulum.
“Now, Master Boaster,” he shouted through cupped hands. “Earn your keep the hard way.”
Gil tracked the erratic pattern of the swinging sack for as long as it took to draw an arrow from her quiver and notch it to the bowstring—all of two seconds. She drew and snapped her fingers to release the arrow, then without waiting to see if it struck home, drew, nocked, and fired another.
Sparrow, standing alongside the swinging target, let off a startled squawk when the arrow struck at the widest point of the arc, impaling the sack to the wall a mere two inches from his pugged nose. The second arrow, hissssing so close upon the fletching of the first as to make the sound of their flights unbroken, was a stomach-lurching inch closer and carried away a lock of tightly curled brown hair in passing.
Gil’s grin was shared by every member of the band but one. With his eyes as round as his gaping mouth, Sparrow hastily retrieved his bow and quiver and scurried off into the tangle of the gardens, leaving gales of laughter following in his wake.
“Serves him right,” Biddy chuckled. She had not forgiven him his many sins of mischief-making—sins which had grown increasingly inventive in the close confines caused by the poor weather—and seeing Sparrow run in a circle, his ear tingling with wood-burn did her bosom a good turn.
Servanne was only partly attentive to Biddy’s gloating. Two new combatants were taking their place in the courtyard, drawing eyes and ears away from other activities as if the world had suddenly shrunken to a circle twelve feet round.
Friar and the Wolf were testing the weight and balance of their swords, the naked steel glinting in the sunlight as both men shrugged aside the precaution of using leather guards for the blades.
“Now, this should be worthy of a stopped heart or two,” Mutter confided to Biddy.
“Indeed,” Stutter added earnestly, “they have come close on occasion to stopping their own.”
“In the beginning, of course …”
“… Friar was no match for milord, not in strength or skill. But now …”
“… they are so evenly matched, the blades must cut close to the veriest edge of peril in order to declare the winner.”
“Peril in a pig’s bladder,” Biddy declared, glaring at the twins. “Surely the blades are dulled and the intents feigned.”
“Oh no,” Mutter assured her. “They draw blood quite regularly.”
“Tis how the men exchange their money back and forth, wagering on who has the meanest look in the eye that particular morning.”
“Today, methinks it is Friar,” Stutter added confidently. “He looks better rested.”
“He does look sleepy,” Mutter agreed, fishing in his tunic for a copper coin. “Too sleepy to oust milord.”
Stutter produced a copper of his own and the two sat happily clutching their wagers as the opening feints of the match began.
Servanne was compelled to glance up from the bits of straw she was absently plaiting in her hands. She had not formed any preferences, one way or the other, for any of these so-called outlaws, but of the lot of them, the Friar seemed the most considerate, the most genteel and levelheaded. If not for the way he flaunted his disdain for the church, and for the lingering humiliation of having believed him to be a real monk, Servanne might almost have admitted a fondness for his wit, his charm, and most notably, his ability to hold his own against the Wolf’s arrogance and broodiness.
So it was, she watched and cheered secretly to see the Friar’s blade draw some of that blood from the Wolf’s bravado.
At first, he looked to be entirely outmatched against the Wolf’s brutish power and prowess, but with the opening cuts and slashes, it became quickly evident that what Friar lacked in muscle, he made up for in speed. The two men struck and lunged, thrust and feinted. Steel clanged and shrilled, the metallic clash of swords echoed within the walled confines of the courtyard. Beside her, Mutter clutched at Stutter’s arm when the Wolf’s blade came streaking down in a silvery arc, the light flaring along the