Some of the townspeople gathered around laughed. The priest, still smiling, shrugged and held out his hand for another arrow. Marshal Guy gave him another arrow with the admonition to take his time and aim. Nodding, the priest made a gesture of dismissal and handed the bow and arrow back to his opponent.
Will, his face white and beaded with sweat, took up the bow once more and strained with every nerve, the target swimming before his eyes as he strove to pinch the string between thumb and forefinger. When he could hold the string no longer, he released it and sent the arrow forward in a low arc to skid along the grass, almost reaching the foot of the target.
Full of confidence and beaming with bravado, the priest took the bow and received an arrow from Guy, who repeated his counsel to take time, draw, and aim properly. The priest made a reply, which the translator passed along, saying, "His Eminence is aware of the problem and will adjust his stance accordingly."
Taking the arrow, he placed it on the string and, gazing hard at the target, narrowed his eyes and drew the string to his cheek, holding the bow straight and strong in front of him. He released after the briefest pause, and the crowd's eyes followed the path of the arrow as it seemed to streak towards the target. But, wonder of wonders, the arrow did not arrive. A second glance confirmed that it had not, in fact, left the string at all, but there remained dangling, caught somehow, one of its feathered flights ripped off and sent halfway across the green. The arrow fell at the embarrassed priest's feet, its iron point in the ground.
More people laughed now.
"The idiot!" grumbled the sheriff. "This is no contest. Neither one of them can draw worth a fart."
"I will draw for the priest," suggested Marshal Guy. "I can do no worse than he has done."
The sheriff stared at him. "Don't be stupid. The contest has begun," he grumbled. "We cannot change now; it would not be seemly."
"Why not?" demanded the marshal. "You broke that wretch's fingers-that was not seemly. How did you ever agree to such a thing anyway?"
"He said he could draw!" replied the sheriff. He forced a sour smile and nodded at the envoy.
"He is hopeless," insisted Guy once more. "Let me take his place."
"Too late," answered the sheriff. "Everyone is watching now. We cannot be seen to force the outcome." Scanning the pavilion, he caught sight of Count Falkes and Abbot Hugo frowning furiously at the disaster slowly unfolding before them. "One more arrow," he said.
"Make certain the envoy understands what is at stake here."
Taking the last arrow, Guy of Gysburne handed it to Brother Alfonso, saying, "This is his last chance to win the contest. Make him understand."
Brother Alfonso made a bow and turned to confer with the papal emissary, who frowned and snatched the offered arrow with a gesture of haughty impatience. As before, the papal cleric stepped close and passed the bow and arrow to Will Scarlet, who drew a long breath as he took the weapon.
"One more, Will," whispered the priest. "It is almost over. I will not let you fail."
It was all Scarlet could do to catch himself shouting, "Bran?" For the first time he looked into the face of the man he had been drawing against and recognized his lord and friend.
"Shh!" said the priest with a wink.
"Bloody de Glanville broke my fingers!" whispered Will, his voice tight and quivering with pain.
"Do your best, Will," Bran whispered. "Try a left-handed pull."
The condemned man took the bow and, with a groan and gritting of teeth, wrapped his discoloured fingers around the belly of the bow this time and took the strain against the cradle of his palm and thumb. Then, even as the pain sent flags of ragged black misery fluttering before his eyes, he drew with his left hand, steadied the trembling weapon, and loosed. The arrow slanted up, flashing into the air higher and higher; it seemed to hang momentarily before falling, spent, to the ground at the straw man's feet.
This brought a murmur from the crowd, most of whom had by now worked out what was unfolding before their eyes.
The priest, still gracious, took the bow and waited for the final arrow to be passed to him along with the marshal's stern caution to take care and aim properly this time. Nodding, he nocked an arrow to the string and, even as he bent the bow, Guy stepped in behind him and placed his hands over the priest's, steadying his aim as the priest let fly.
The envoy, shocked at this bold intrusion, gave out a yelp and jerked back. But the arrow was already on its way. This time it flew true, but the distance was woefully misjudged, for the missile sang over the straw man's head and flew on, swiftly disappearing into the long grass far beyond the greensward. The condemned man saw it, knew that he had won the contest, and sank to his knees, tears of relief and agony rolling down his bewhiskered cheeks.
Before anyone could intervene, the black-robed envoy summoned his aide, Brother Alfonso, to take the injured criminal under his care. "Stupid!" roared the sheriff at Guy. "What did you do?"
"I was only trying to help," said the marshal. "It would have worked, too, if he hadn't pulled so hard."
The black priest accepted his failure with good grace. Beaming with pleasure, he offered his hand to the condemned man, raising him to his feet. Placing his arm around the criminal's shoulders, the slender priest proclaimed in a loud voice so all could hear, "I declare the contest was fair and the results are conclusive. This man is the winner!"
He paused so that Brother Alfonso could relay his words to the gathering. "I do not know what he has done to merit his punishment, but let his example teach us the humility of forgiveness and redemption. For all men stand in need of salvation. Therefore, as our Lord's vicar on earth, I stand ready to absolve him of guilt and lead him into the paths of righteousness. I accept full responsibility for his life and will do all in my power to redeem him from his reprobate ways."
As the startled Ffreinc looked on aghast at what had just taken place, he whispered, "Never fear,Will, I have you now and will not let you go."
Will Scarlet, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, clung to the black-robed envoy as to a kinsman long lost. "God bless you, my lord," he murmured. "God bless you right well."
CHAPTER 39
Hamtun Docks
Merian gently tied the ends of the rag binding Will Scarlet's wounded hand and tucked the ends under. "If Angharad was here," she apologized, "she would know better what to do for you." She had carefully straightened his swollen and discoloured fingers and bound each one to a bit of hazel twig Iwan had cut and shaped to serve for splints. She surveyed her work with a hopeful smile. "Does it hurt much?"
"Not much,"Will replied, grimacing even as he said it. "I am that glad to be feeling anything at all just now. It reminds me I am alive."
"And back with those who love you," she said, brushing his fingertips with her lips as she released him.
"I do thank you, my lady," he said, his voice thick with sudden emotion. He raised his hand and regarded his bandaged fingers, amazed that something so small could hurt so much. Despite the throbbing insistence of the pain, however, he remained overawed at his rescue, and his friends' continued deception. They had risked all for him, and his gratitude could not be contained. "My heart has no words to say thanks enough."
"I only wish we could have come sooner," said Siarles, who had been hovering at Merian's shoulder.
"And thanks to you, Siarles," replied Will, acknowledging the forester's presence. "It does a body good to see you again. God's truth, I did not recognise any of you. "'Course, I had other things on my mind just then."