Mac, however, was another story. With the boy being only eight years old, the weapon was new and unruly to him. Unlike the toy swords he had waved about since he could stand. But as Hamish’s mother was so fond of saying, a prince who relied on one weapon was a fool.
Hamish had heard snippets of the boy’s brothers trying to teach him the lessons they’d learnt, but Mac was too busy sulking to take in their words.
Watching the older pair try again reminded Hamish of his childhood days in this same range, when Gordon or Nora would attempt to correct him. He hadn’t been much for listening to his older siblings either.
“I cannae do it!” Mac roared, although the sound was far less fearsome than he likely intended; a bit like a puppy yapping next to the baying of a boarhound. He tossed the bow to one side and aimed an inefficient kick at it.
Shaking his head, Hamish dropped off the stone wall and strode towards the trio. “Is that any way to treat your bow?”
“I cannae hit the target,” the boy continued to wail. “I’ll never be good enough.” He glared at the abandoned weapon sitting in the grass. “Thing’s a bloody menace.”
“Language,” Bruce murmured, casting a covert glance at Hamish.
“There’s your problem,” Sorcha bellowed from her place beside the left wall. She waved a hand in their direction, pointing with an arrow that she gripped almost daintily between her middle and index fingers. “You cannae use your bow if you’re nae holding it.” Giving a decisive nod, she nocked the arrow, drew her bow full and loosed to the muffled thack of the target.
Shielding his eyes, Hamish peered down the range. The girl’s arrow had met the target about a few inches shy of centre. Given a year or so of training, and a good deal more hunting trips than she was currently allowed, she’d a fair chance of becoming more skilled than her mother. Just the sort of tale for a future queen.
But her abilities weren’t the ones currently being contested.
Scooping up Mac’s discarded bow from the dew-damp ground, he turned back to his nephews. “She’s right, you ken,” he said to the sulking boy.
“What does it matter?” Mac muttered. “It willnae shoot straight whether I’m holding it or nae.”
“He’s shaking all over the place,” Ethan said with his older brother nodding over his shoulder.
“Really?” Hamish offered the bow to Mac. “Show me, lad.”
His nephew glared at him through a mop of gingery red curls. All three of the boys had more-or-less the same hair colour, several shades darker than their mother’s almost reddish blonde locks.
Seeing that further insistence would only serve to frustrate the both of them, he knelt at Mac’s side. “You ken, I was pretty rubbish at this when I first started.”
His nephew eyed him warily, likely trying to picture a time when Hamish had ever not been capable of loosing an arrow and hitting his target dead-centre. Admittedly, the boy hadn’t even been a glimmer in his dad’s eye when such a statement was true, but maybe it would motivate him.
“Aye,” Hamish continued. “I wasnae much younger than you. Your mum was just a wee bit better than Sorcha is now and she was always dragging me down here. Didnae matter how hard they tried, I just couldnae do it.”
Whilst the wariness remained, a glimmer of curiosity danced across his face. “What changed?”
“I tried one more time.” He recalled the day of his first centre-hit quite clearly. Seven years of age, frustrated and harassed almost beyond reason, his thoughts had been only on the target and getting it right, even if it was just the once. He couldn’t explain how, but it had all just fallen into place and he’d been able to down his targets on the first hit ever since.
Hamish gently pressed the bow into Mac’s hand. “That’s all I’m asking of you. One more and I promise I’ll nae ask you to do it again if you nae want to.”
“He’s nae going to listen to you,” Bruce piped up. Both the older boy and Ethan had abandoned their own training to lean against the range border wall. “Even granddad cannae get him to try when he gets this worked up.”
That sounds familiar. He had rather strong memories of his father attempting to teach him and giving up in the face of his stubbornness. “Then it’s a good thing I’m nae his granddad. And you two should be practising as well.” He pinned them both with a hard look until they returned to their previous spots. “Now, what do you say, lad? One more?”
Sullen brown eyes continued to watch him. Mac’s fingers twitched along the bow’s leather grip. The bow dangled in his grasp, but at least he hadn’t let go of it.
“Come on.” Hamish grinned. “Just once for your favourite uncle.”
Huffing, Mac plucked an arrow from the ground. He pulled back on the bowstring. “See?” The bow did indeed wobble in his grip. His fingered tightened, knuckles paling as he fought to keep the arrow steady.
“That’s because you’re holding on too hard, lad.” The bow was a simple recurve, the type most of the hunters around Mullhind used. “You’re stronger than your bow, you dinnae need to fight him. Relax your grip some.”
“I’ve tried,” Mac insisted, his jaw setting stubbornly. “It willnae work.”
“Trust me.”
Muttering what Hamish was certain had been a few breathless curses, Mac finally loosed the arrow.
Hamish held his breath, all his focus trained on the arrow. It wobbled along its path, reaching the height of its arc a quarter of the way down the range. Not enough. It didn’t need to hit a decent mark, or even reach much farther than the foot of the target. Anything less and Mac would give up on archery completely. He wouldn’t be allowed to leave on hunts without that training.
The arrow straightened, sailing down the range
