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Longbow Girl Page 20


  Mair lay on the beaten-earth floor, blood leaking from a wound to her temple.

  Merry rushed over to her, fell to her knees.

  ‘Mair, can you hear me?’ she asked, taking the old lady’s wrist, frantically feeling for a pulse. After a few terrible seconds she found one.

  ‘Oh, thank God. Thank God. You’re alive,’ she said.

  No reply. Mair was unconscious. Merry prayed she wasn’t in a coma. Was she breathing? Merry held her hand close to the healer’s lips, felt the slightest of draughts.

  God, what to do? Move her? What if she had a broken back? Merry didn’t think so. It looked like Mair had been hit with a blunt object, perhaps taken by surprise by an intruder who crept up on her from behind. Then Merry saw the brick on the ground, the hiding place revealed and at that moment, Mair murmured and tried to sit up.

  Merry reached her arm around the old lady’s back, supported her. ‘It’s all right, Mair. I’m here.’

  ‘A man,’ said the healer in a faint voice. ‘Looking for you. He asked me where Merry Owen was. And he took my gold coins and my healer’s book.’

  Merry glanced from Mair to the door. She felt a kind of blind fury. Fury that had nowhere to go.

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Just now.’

  Fury that had somewhere to go. ‘Will you be all right? If I leave you for a bit?’

  The healer nodded, struggled to sit.

  Merry strung her bow, shouldered her arrow bag, closed the door. She looked across the empty field, past the lowing cow, down to the forest.

  Who was this man who had attacked Mair and asked for her by name? And where would he flee to? A flock of birds erupted from the treetops as if in answer to her question.

  Merry didn’t think twice about following the man. About what might happen if she caught him.

  She sprinted down to the forest. Paused, listened. Movement, footfalls, branches breaking. She sprinted on, weaving between the trees, jumping fallen logs.

  With luck, the thief would be making so much noise he wouldn’t hear her, but she’d have to be careful. She paused again, heard something further down the slope. She glimpsed movement ahead, a hundred yards away. A lithe figure dodging through the trees.

  She ran on, gaining. The man was running, not sprinting. He had no idea he was being chased. As Merry closed the gap on him, she could see he was wearing a green woollen tunic, similar to hers. Underneath, he wore dark leggings. But as she got closer still, she could see that the leggings were made not of rough wool, but of Lycra.

  Her heart lurched. The man was from her time …

  She stepped on a fallen branch. It snapped with a loud crack. Birds erupted again from the trees, cawing their alarm.

  The man froze. Every single fibre of his body seemed to stop moving. One foot in the air, one arm forward. Then he turned.

  Merry gasped. It was Professor Parks! She’d had a sense that someone had been following her, both in her time and now. Parks must have tailed her to the pool, watched her swim under the waterfall, swim back … And swum back too. Then stalked her, listened outside the cottage, heard her describing Mair’s hiding place, where she kept her gold coins. Knew everything.

  He began to walk towards Merry. His face was set, eyes hard, scanning the forest behind her, as if to check she was alone.

  Merry took an arrow from her bag, was about to nock it when Parks stopped. Thirty yards away.

  He stood, feet planted wide, facing her full on, making a target of himself in silent mockery of the lethal weapon she held in her hand. He didn’t look remotely afraid, or ashamed to have been caught. Instead he grinned at her with what looked like a kind of twisted delight.

  ‘Merry Owen. Who’d have thought it? You and I. Together. In King Henry’s time?’

  He had the beginnings of a beard. It darkened the hollows of his face. He’d always looked vaguely sinister; now he looked frightening. And oddly liberated. As if he’d shrugged off Professor Parks and become someone different.

  ‘You were following me all along, weren’t you?’ said Merry.

  ‘You only just figured that out?’ He gave her a contemptuous look. ‘You really are spectacularly unobservant, aren’t you?’

  Merry said nothing. She just kept her gaze fixed on him. She could feel her heart thudding.

  ‘And it was you who broke into my home.’

  Parks laughed. ‘I didn’t even have to break in! You’d left the doors unlocked – you even told me you always did. Quite unbelievable!’

  ‘That’s because I don’t live in a world with people who steal, who attack,’ said Merry.

  ‘Actually,’ sneered Parks, ‘it would appear that you do. Besides, who are you to lecture me? You stole the signet ring.’

  ‘And then you stole it again, flogged it to some antiques dealer.’

  ‘Who sold it to the countess … Nice little profit, that.’

  ‘You’re a thief and almost a murderer. You hit me and knocked me out! I could have died of hypothermia out there in the snow.’

  Parks shrugged. ‘You got in the way. The snow was unfortunate.’

  ‘Why did you want the book so much?’

  ‘I had a feeling it would lead me to some other discovery.’ Parks stretched his arm out. ‘I had no idea it would be this.’ He paused, smiled. ‘I didn’t manage to get the book, but I had the next best thing. You!’

  ‘Me?’

  Parks came closer. ‘I felt sure you were up to something, hunting for something. So I followed you. Many have died. Kudos, Merry, for swimming back, for surviving.’

  ‘How did you manage it?’

  ‘It was very tough, even I must admit that, but an oxygen re-breather and flippers proved rather useful.’ He smiled again. ‘I followed you back the first time too. Didn’t you sense me?’

  ‘It was you in the tunnel, following me into the castle!’

  ‘It was indeed. Suicidally risky. I took some little objets, souvenirs, couldn’t resist …’ His eyes gleamed at the memory. ‘Then I went outside again, hid in the forests, waited and watched.’ He gave Merry a nod of admiration. ‘Bit of a narrow escape you had that night, galloping off on the Arab horse. If they’d caught you …’ He made a cutting motion, hand across his throat. ‘Not even sure you’d have made it as far as the gallows. The men and the dogs hunting you, blood up. You’d have had a far worse fate …’

  Merry shuddered at the memory. Of being hunted. Of being prey.

  Parks took another few paces closer.

  ‘Dicing with death again, aren’t you, coming back, horse thief …’

  ‘I did what I needed to do then. And now,’ replied Merry, anger rising. ‘But you … you had no need to attack an old lady, to steal her savings and her book.’

  Parks narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you any idea what this is like for an archaeologist? A historian? Coming back, to another world, a different time? How could I not take things?’

  ‘Taking her treasures is bad enough. But attacking her? You could have killed her!’ shouted Merry.

  Parks’s response was chillingly cold, almost devoid of emotion. ‘She got in the way.’

  ‘Like me. In the snow.’

  Parks nodded. ‘Exactly.’

  Merry stood very still, her body tingling with horror. Was this what a psychopath looked like? Reasonable. Remorseless. Ruthless.

  Parks continued to approach. He was just fifteen yards away now. Merry knew she’d have to act. Nock, mark, draw, loose … Could she do it … ?

  ‘You’re in my way again,’ murmured Parks.

  Merry nocked her arrow.

  ‘I can read a lot in people’s eyes,’ continued Parks. ‘Like I can read in yours that you want to shoot me.’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘Only you haven’t got the bottle for it, have you, Merry? It’s just an ego thing, this longbow girl affectation.’ Again he stepped closer.

  He was going to rush her, she could see that.

  Merry held her bow, the bow she felt sure had gon
e to war, had more than a few kills to its name … She nocked, marked and drew. She looked at the man, looked at the tree behind him, then she loosed her arrow.

  It flew towards Parks, nicked his ear and embedded itself in the tree with a loud thud.

  Parks swore, dropped the book, touched his ear, stared at his bloody fingers with disbelief. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Merry could feel the fury boiling in the man, the violence waiting to erupt.

  She nocked another arrow, marked him, drew again. ‘Put down the gold coins or I’ll shoot this one right into you.’ Her voice and her hand on the bow were steady, but inside she was vibrating with fear.

  The blood ran down Parks’s neck. He pulled a bag from his tunic and dropped it to the ground.

  ‘One little pathetic victory for you. Enjoy it while you can, Merry Owen, because I’ll be out here. I’ll be watching and waiting and I promise you, I’ll make you more than pay for this.’

  Merry made the arrow twitch. Parks dodged, turned and sprinted off into the deep of the forest.

  Across 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.

  Merry 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 wal
ked 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.