Page 21 of The Forest Bride
Shouldering the weapon, Duncan went to join the several archers standing near the butts. Waiting his turn, he took a few moments to check the bow, a good ashen one with a powerful pull. The arrows were good too, neatly fletched with goose feathers. Their plain steel bodkin points would fly straight and true to pierce a target. Satisfied, he stood patiently by as names were called. He would be last.
Two shots were allowed each contestant, the targets easy enough—a pair of flower garlands varying in color and size.Each archer showed decent skill, Duncan thought, as he watched two farm lads and a grizzled crofter hit near the edges of the garlands, fluttering petals to the ground. The next archer hit the center of one garland and wildly missed the next shot.
“Marcus Murray,” the clerk called.
Murray? Duncan narrowed his eyes. The lad appeared to be the one he had seen with the blond fellow in the foot race. Bundled in cloak and cap, the slender lad in the black cap brought his bow up, nocked the arrow, stretched the string, eyed the targets.
Duncan sensed an uncanny calm in one so young. The lad acted as if he heard nothing around him, seeing only the target. His first arrow struck near the garland’s center. His second shot was a finger’s-width to the side, measured by a lad who ran forward to pluck arrows from the targets, while the dog with him fetched arrows from the ground, bringing them back to those overseeing the competition.
“Sir Duncan Campbell of Brechlinn,” the clerk called out, standing near Menteith.
Duncan stepped forward as the young archer in the black cap stepped away. The boy looked pale, even shaken, despite his previous calm. He glanced at Duncan, a flash of green eyes—young and anxious. Perhaps he did not like justiciars.
“Well done,” Duncan said, to offer encouragement. The lad turned away.
He took his position next, nocked, sighted, taking a moment to get the feel of a bow he had never used. The bow was good, the arrow shaft straight, the target an easy twenty or so yards off. Then he pulled. The bodkin point sailed to pierce the hole made by the lad in the black cap. His second arrow hit very near the center of the garland.
The crowd applauded as Duncan stepped aside. The miller’s lad fetched the arrows while the miller and another tackedup another garland. Each competitor shot and stepped aside. Duncan waited, hands wrapped around the upright bow.
Young Marcus Murray stepped up again, shooting with impressive calm and accuracy. Several shots later, Duncan was not surprised when the competition winnowed down to Marcus and himself.
“Which of you will win the prize?” Menteith crowed, holding up the brooch. It flashed blue and silver in the sunlight.
Beside him, Marcus Murray made a sound, a sort of gasp that became a cough.
Duncan reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. “Fine? You can win that brooch. Just go easy.”
“Huh,” the lad grumbled. “I want that brooch.”
Odd, Duncan thought, that low, husky voice, that intense glance at Menteith. But it was just a cloak pin. He had a half dozen in a wooden box. He did not need another.
The final target was set up—three wooden hoops of graduated size, the smallest less than a palm wide, a true challenge. One shot would be allowed for each ring.
Duncan struck near the center, and so did the boy, their arrows tight together inside the first two hoops. He held back a bit with his shot. He did not want to best such a talented young archer. Marcus was so shy, he barely looked up, even when the crowd cheered him. Yet the lad gave Duncan a genuine challenge. Though thin and barely muscled, his aim was true.
Their third set of shots hit directly into the smallest hoop, the arrows so tightly together inside the circle that the miller turned to Sir John.
“Should both win?”
“Give them one more,” Menteith said. “I want to see that strapling boy beat the justiciar. Bring another target. That painted sign.”
Two boys carried out a banner and tacked it to the hay bales, the cloth blowing a bit in the spring breeze. As the boys stepped back and Duncan saw the banner, he clenched his bow in startled response. The image was a white falcon in mid-flight, wings spread. White feathers had been glued to the painted wings, giving it an eerie realism.
Beside him, Marcus Murray gasped and tugged at his cap. Duncan saw a reddish curl slip free, tucked back again. He frowned.
He studied the boy more closely, noticing what he had not before: the finely shaped profile and pale skin; slim, graceful fingers adjusting the cap; long, smooth, shapely legs; and despite the bulky clothing, a distinct curve at hip and breast.
No need to look for the red-haired lass. She stood just beside him. What the devil? He could not sort it out quickly.
“A falcon,” Menteith announced. “A gyrfalcon—the bird only kings can fly! Have you ever seen one, Sir Duncan? The boy never has, surely, but perhaps you have.”
“I have. Magnificent birds.” Duncan glanced at the young archer. Under the ill-fitting cap, the girl’s cheeks were stained pink.
“I have heard they fly wild in Scotland. One of my men saw a white falcon not long ago. We should trap it together, you and I, since our lands converge.”
“Likely impossible to trap such a thing,” Duncan said carefully.
“Well, shoot the eye of that falcon and you win the prize!” Menteith raised the silver brooch. It caught the sunlight. “One shot each will determine the winner.”
