'Well,' said Hooker, 'things are getting interesting.'
For a moment, De Bracy stared stupidly at his amputated lance, having been caught unprepared by the quickness of Cedric's blow. Then someone called out, 'Well struck!' in a loud voice and the crowd burst into cheers and laughter. De Bracy turned beet red and grabbed for his sword, but found a gloved hand covering his own. He looked up and saw the smiling face of the red knight, who had ridden up beside him.
'You find this amusing, de la Croix?' De Bracy snapped.
'No, somewhat predictable, given Cedric's character,' said Andre de la Croix, suppressing a chuckle. The two knights conversed in French, as did all Normans when they weren't addressing Saxons in the mixed tongue of lingua franca.
'Remove your hand,' said De Bracy, very evenly.
'I will,' said de la Croix, 'only remember that this passage at arms has been arranged to curry favor with the motley masses, the better to enable them to forget, for a time at least, their empty purses. It would prove somewhat contrary to the purpose were you to skewer Cedric, who has their affection.'
Sullenly, De Bracy loosened his grip on the pommel of his sword and de la Croix removed the restraining hand. John, meanwhile, had missed this interplay, having been preoccupied with his indignation at the man who had set off the outcry and the laughter by calling out, 'Well struck!'
' You!' He pointed his truncheon at the offender. 'What is your name?'
'I'm called Grant the Tinker,' said the man.
'I don't like your face,' said John. 'Step forward!'
Bobby Johnson ducked beneath the railing and stepped up to the monarch's horse. He inclined his head in a small and totally inadequate bow.
'You are insolent, Tinker.'
'I was merely carried away in my enthusiasm at seeing a blow that had been struck so well,' said Bobby, casually omitting any use of honorifics in his address of the prince.
'What would a tinker know of such things?' said John, contemptuously.
'It's true that I'm no knight,' said Bobby, 'but I'm a fair hand with a bow and I can appreciate the skill one man displays in that which he does best.'
'You fancy yourself an archer, then? Why would a common tinker concern himself with such a martial art?'
'These are hard times in which we live,' said Bobby. 'Bandits are abroad and a man must learn to protect himself.'
'The man is insolent beyond belief, Sire,' said Front-de-Boeuf. 'Let me run him through and we'll have done with him.'
'No,' said John. 'I am of a mind to have some sport with this rude peasant. We shall put him to the test. We'll see how well you shoot, Tinker, if your arrows fly as true as your mouth runs ready. Marshal, prepare the butts. We will begin with archery today. And if you do not prove to be as expert as you are rash, my loutish friend, I'll see you lashed for your impertinence.'
As the heralds proclaimed the beginning of the tournament, John and his retinue took their places in the stands in a section separated from the others by being somewhat elevated above them and enclosed on all sides save the front, giving those sitting within the most commanding view of the field. The archery butts were brought out and Bobby stepped forward to take his place among the ranks of the competitors. There were not too many of them, since challengers would have to shoot against John's Norman archers, who were famous for their marksmanship.
'Now look what you've done,' growled Finn Delaney, who had gone along with Bobby to hold his quiver and his cloak.
'Now look what you've done, sir,' said Bobby, grinning. Finn was old enough to be his father.
'Shit, give me a break,' said Finn. He ran a beefy hand through his thick red hair. 'This isn't funny. He wasn't kidding about giving you a whipping. You think they'll stop with just tearing some skin off your back? These bastards will keep at it till you croak!'
'That's assuming I lose this contest,' Bobby said.
'Who do you think you are, Robin Hood?'
Bobby stared at him in astonishment, then broke up.
'Okay, very funny,' Finn said, frowning. 'But what if any of these characters are better than you?'
'Then I guess we'll be in trouble.'
'We?'
'Thanks, Finn. I knew you'd stand by me.'
'Jesus, you could at least have called him Sire or Your Majesty or something. You had to go and piss him off. What was the point?'
Bobby handed him his cloak and hat. 'You're supposed to be Little John,' he said, 'and I'm supposed to be the fastest gun in Sherwood Forest, remember? If I win this shoot-out, they'll be talking about it all over the place. Can you think of a better way of establishing our credentials?'
'Give me a minute, I'm sure I can come up with something.'
'Well, think fast, because they're about to get this show on the road.'
The trumpets blared again and the herald announced that each man would have three flights of arrows at a distance of seventy-five paces. The moment that had been announced, seven of the competitors dropped out. That left only nine, including Bobby. Each man shot at will, taking as much time as he wished to shoot three arrows in succession. Bobby hit the gold with every shot with no apparent difficulty and, to most of the people in the stands, it looked like he hardly even aimed. Only two archers did as well, which eliminated everybody else.
'That wasn't bad,' said Finn.
'I had to make harder shots in training,' Bobby said. 'Besides, this isn't entirely new to me, you know. Remind me to tell you about the time I took archery lessons from Ulysses.'
They moved the targets farther back, to a distance of about one hundred yards. They shot again and this time one man was eliminated. That left Bobby and Hubert, John's champion archer.
'If Hubert doesn't beat this insolent braggart,' John said, 'I'll have his guts for garters.'
The targets were now moved back to a distance of some hundred and twenty yards.
'You sure about this?' whispered Finn.
'Piece of cake.'
Hubert was to have the first shot. He drew his long bow back to his right ear, aimed carefully, waited for the breeze to die down and then let fly. The arrow described a graceful arc in the air and landed directly dead center in the gold. A cheer went up from the stands.
'Hah!' John exclaimed, jubilant at Hubert's shot. 'Let's see the Saxon bastard beat that shot! It can't be done!'
Finn's heart sank.
'Hell of a shot,' Bobby said. 'I'd give my left nut for a laminated Browning recurve with stabilizers right about now.'
'What are we going to do?'
'The only thing we can do.'
'Resign and run for it?'
'No, cheat.'
He turned his back to the stands, taking a position so that Hubert couldn't see what he was doing. He removed an arrow from the quiver that was colored differently from all the others. He fitted the black arrow to his bow.
'A little something the ordnance boys whipped up for me, just in case,' he said to Finn.
'What's the gimmick?'
'Look inside the quiver and you'll find a little black box. When I nock my arrow, the bowstring depresses the arming trigger. The moment I let fly, you hit the button on that box. Inside the shaft, there's integrated microcircuitry coupling a ferrous metal detector inside the bronze arrowhead with a limited trim system on the fletching.'
