poor, sad field, shadowed and soggy as it was. The people ranged themselves in a wide double rank behind us, and by now there were upwards of sixty folk-most all of the forest dwellers, I reckoned, saving a few of the women and smaller children. The grain had been harvested and only stubble remained, along with the straw man set up at the far edge of the clearing to keep the birds away. The figure was fixed to a pole some eighty or a hundred paces from where we stood-far enough to make the contest interesting.
'Three arrows. The scarecrow will be our mark,' Bran explained as Iwan passed arrows to us both. 'Hit it if you can.'
'It's been that long since I last drew-' I began.
'No excuses,' said Siarles quickly. 'Just do your best. No shame in that.'
'I was not about making excuses,' I replied, nocking the arrow to the string. 'I was going to say it's been that long since I last drew, I almost forgot how good a yew bow feels in my hand.' This brought a chuckle or two from those gathered around. Turning to Rhi Bran, I said, 'Where would you like this first arrow to go, my lord?'
'Head or heart, either will do,' Bran replied.
The arrow was on its way the instant the words left his mouth. My first shaft struck the bunched tuft of straw that formed the scarecrow's head, with a satisfying swish! as it passed through on its way to the far end of the field.
A murmur of polite approval rippled through the crowd.
'I can see you've drawn a longbow before,' said Bran.
'Once or twice.'
Lord Bran drew and loosed, sending his first shaft after mine, and close enough to the same place that it made no matter. The people cheered their lord with loud and lusty cries.
'My lord,' I said, 'I think you have drawn a bow once or twice yourself.'
'The heart this time?' he suggested, as we accepted our second arrows from Iwan.
'If straw men have hearts,' I said, drawing and taking good aim, 'his has thumped its last.' This time I sent the shaft up at a slight arc so that it dropped neatly through the centre of the scarecrow and stuck in the dirt behind it.
'Your luck is with you today,' sniffed Siarles as polite applause spattered among the onlookers.
'Not a bit of it,' I told him, grinning. 'That was so the lads wouldn't have to run so far to retrieve my arrow.'
'Then I shall do likewise,' said Bran, and again, drew and aimed and loosed so quickly that each separate motion flowed into the next and became one. His arrow struck the scarecrow in the upper middle and stuck in the ground right beside mine. Again, the people cheered heartily for their young king.
'Head and heart,' I said. 'We've done for your man out there. What else is left?'
'The pole on which he hangs,' said Iwan, handing over the last arrow.
'The pole then?' asked Bran, raising an eyebrow.
'The pole,' I confirmed.
Well, now. The day was misty and grey, as I say, and the little light we had was swiftly failing now. I had to squint a bit to even see the blasted pole, jutting up like a wee nubbin just over the peak of the scarecrow's straw head. It showed maybe the size of a lady's fist, and that gave me an idea. Turning to Bran's dark-haired lady, I said, 'My queen, will you bless this arrow with a kiss?'
'Queen?' she said, recoiling. 'I am not his queen, thank you very much.'
This was said with considerable vehemence… Yes, vehemence, Odo.' My scribe has wrinkled his nose like he's smelled a rotten egg, as he does whenever I say a word he doesn't understand. 'It means, well, it means fire, you know-passion, grit, and brimstone.'
'I thought you said she was the queen?' objects Odo.
'That is because I thought she was the queen.'
'Well, was she or wasn't she?' he complains, lifting his pen as if threatening to quit unless all is explained to his satisfaction forthwith. 'And who is she anyway?'
'Hold your water, monk, I'm coming to that,' I tell him. And we go on… This time we draw together,' said Bran. 'On my count.'
'Ready.' I press the bow forward and bring the string to my cheek, my eyes straining to the mark.
'One… two… three…'
I loosed the shaft on his 'three' and felt the string lash my wrist with the sting of a wasp. The arrow sliced through the air and struck the pole a little to one side. My aim was off, and the point did nothing more than graze the side of the pole. The arrow glanced off to the left and careered into the brush beyond the tiny field.
Bran, however, continued the count. 'Four!' he said, and loosed just a beat after me-enough, I think, so that he saw where my shaft would strike. And then, believe it or not, he matched it. Just as my arrow had grazed the left side of the scarecrow's pole, so Bran's sheared the right. He saw me miss, and then missed himself by the same margin, mind. Proud bowman that I was, I could but stand humbled in the presence of an archer of unequalled skill.
Turning to me with a cheery grin, he said, 'Sorry, William, I should have told you it was four, not three.' He put a friendly hand on my shoulder. 'Do you want to try again?'
'Three or four, it makes no matter,' I told him. Indicating the straw man, I said, 'It seems our weedy friend has survived the ordeal.'
'Arrows, Gwion Bach!' called Bran, and an eager young fella leapt to his command; two other lads followed on his heels, and the three raced off to retrieve the shafts.
Iwan walked out to examine the scarecrow pole. He pulled it up and brought it back to where we were waiting, and he and Angharad the banfaith scrutinized the top of the pole, with Siarles, not to be left out, pressing in between them.
'Judging by the notches made by the passing arrows,' announced the old woman after her inspection, 'Iwan and I say the one on the right has trimmed the most from the pole. Therefore, we declare Rhi Bran the winner.'
The people cheered and clapped their hands for their king. And, suddenly disheartened as the meaning of their words broke upon me, I choked down my disappointment, fastened a smile to my face, and prepared to take my leave.
'You know what this means,' said Bran, solemn as the grave.
I nodded. 'The contest was fair-all it wanted was a better day.' I lifted my eyes to his, hoping to see some compassion there. But where the moment before they had been alive with light and mirth, his eyes were flat and cold. Could he change his demeanour so quickly?
'You deserved better,' said the dark-haired lady.
'I make no complaint,' I said.
'It is a hard thing,' Bran observed, glancing at the young woman beside him, 'but we do not always get what we want or deserve in this life.'
'Sadly true, my lord,' I agreed. 'Who should know that better than Will Scarlet?'
I lowered my head and prepared to accept my defeat, and as I did so I saw that he was not looking at me, but at the young woman. She was glaring at him-why, I cannot say-seeming to take strenuous exception to the drift of our little talk.
'But, sometimes, William,' the forest king announced, 'we get better than we deserve.' I looked up quickly, and I saw a little of the warmth ebbing back into him. 'I have decided you can stay.'
It was said so quick I did not credit what I had heard. 'My lord, did you say… I can stay?'
He nodded. 'Providing you swear allegiance to me to take me as your lord and share my fortunes to the aid of my Grellon, and the oppressed folk of Elfael.'
'That I will do gladly,' I told him. 'Let me kneel and I will swear my oath here and now.'
'Did you hear that, everyone?' His smile was suddenly broad and welcoming. To me, he said, 'I would I had a hundred hardy men as right ready as yourself-the Ffreinc would be fleeing back to their ships and reckoning themselves lucky to escape with their miserable hides.' With that Iwan- Beg pardon?' says Odo, interrupting again.
'Are we never to get this told?' I say with a sigh of resignation, although I do not mind his questions as much as I let on, for it lengthens the time that much more.
