There were still some aspects of her attitude that needed correction. She had spent her life so far being spoiled and having people accede to her every whim. As a consequence, she liked to get her own way. If things didn’t go well immediately, she could become impatient and frustrated.
And while she was a much more pleasant person than she had been initially, there was still a level of petulance there as well. Like her mother, Will thought to himself, remembering how Evanlyn had been in their first days together on Erak’s ship and on Skorghijl.
But Maddie was also determined—which was possibly the reverse side of petulance, he thought—and that definitely won his approval. He noted that, even when she wasn’t shooting, she would string the bow then spend twenty minutes to half an hour simply drawing the string back and slowly releasing it, building her muscle memory and strength.
He came upon her at the rear of the cabin one day, struggling with the thick stringer cord to bend the limbs of the bow and set the bowstring in place.
“There’s another way to do that,” he said. “And you don’t have to carry a stringer round all the time.”
He held out his hand and she passed him the unstrung bow. He detached the stringer and handed it back to her.
“I think your strength might have improved enough for you to try this way,” he said.
She watched as he hooked one of the recurve spurs around the front of his left ankle, then stepped his right foot through the gap between the loose string and the bow. Then, with his left ankle holding the bow firmly in place, he used his weight and the strength of his back and right arm to bend the bow forward, using his right thigh as a fulcrum.
The bowstring slid smoothly up the limb of the bow and he seated it firmly in its notch. Then he straightened and handed her the strung bow.
“There,” he said. “You unstring it the same way. Try it.”
She mimicked his position, then pushed against the bow limb to bend it so that she could release the loop of the bowstring from the top of the bow. She struggled at first, but found that by using the strength of her legs, her back and her newly tautened shoulder and arm muscles, she could bend the bow forward.
She smiled triumphantly at him. He nodded, unsmiling. But that didn’t dampen her sense of achievement. She settled the bow firmly against her left ankle, then heaved at it to reset the string. She struggled over the last few vital centimetres, then felt a sense of accomplishment as the looped end of the bowstring slid home.
“Is that how you string your bow?” she asked. She realised that she had never seen him do this. He shrugged.
“Sometimes. It’s easier with the recurve—the way it locks behind your ankle and stays in place. With a normal longbow, that can slip out at the most embarrassing time. But generally, I use this.”
He gestured to the back of his right boot, and she noticed that there was a loop of leather strap there, behind the heel.
“I put one end of the bow into that loop, then use my whole body to bend the bow over my back while I slide the string into place,” he said.
She nodded thoughtfully, seeing how it would work.
“So the idea is to use all your muscles to bend the bow—back, legs and arms?” she said.
“That’s the best way to do it. Use everything you’ve got. Don’t overwork one part. Most Rangers are small, after all. We need to use all the muscles we’ve got.”
She looked at him curiously. She had never thought of him as being particularly small. But now she realised that he was much shorter than her father—and most of the other knights and warriors she had known over the years. Shorter, perhaps, but no smaller around the shoulders and chest. She guessed that a lifetime of practising with his longbow, with its draw weight of eighty to ninety pounds, had developed those muscles to their current condition.
As he so often did, Will seemed to sense what she was thinking.
“There’s something to be said for being small,” he told her. “After all, the bigger you are, the more there is to hide.”
He nodded at the bow that she was still holding in her hand.
“Don’t let me stop you practising,” he said, and strolled away. A bundle of reports had come in with the mail courier that morning and he needed to go through them.
She began to draw the bow, pushing in and out, drawing the string back. Now, she found, she could bring it back past her nose, until her index finger was almost touching the corner of her mouth.
“I may need to make you some longer arrows,” she heard him say. She looked up in surprise. She thought he had gone, but he had stopped at the corner of the cabin to watch her.
“Keep practising,” he said, then moved away once more.
Usually she practised archery and knife throwing in the afternoon, with the mornings taken up by fitness training, distance running and camouflage skills. But on this day, Will changed the routine. They ate lunch together in the cabin—fresh bread, sharp, tangy cheese and apples. She washed hers down with cool milk, while he had coffee. He’d shown her how to grind the beans rather than just dump them in the pot and douse them with boiling water. He sipped the last few drops appreciatively.
“You’re getting better at this,” he said. They cleared the table together and washed their plates. Then she reached for her bow and quiver, which were hanging from hooks beside the door. But he shook his head.
“Not today,” he said. “Today I want to see how good you are with that sling of yours.”
“I’m pretty good,” she said confidently, although when she thought about it, she realised that she hadn’t used the sling since she’d been at Redmont. Her days had been preoccupied with the bow and her knives.
Will raised an eyebrow. “And modest about it as well,” he commented.
She shrugged, hoping that she wouldn’t disgrace herself when the moment came. She went to her room and took the sling and a pouch of shot from the chest that contained her belongings.
In the clearing outside, Will had set up five poles, each topped by a battered helmet he had scavenged from the discard pile at the Redmont Battleschool armoury. The five poles were at staggered distances, with the closest a mere twenty metres away and the farthest more than forty. There was no symmetry in their placement. The nearest pole was on the extreme right, the farthest in the middle of the line, with the others staggered randomly. She assessed the targets thoughtfully. This was a tougher test than Halt and Crowley had set for her at Castle Araluen. She’d have to assess the distance for each shot. She tied her shot bag onto her belt, selected one of the lead balls and set it in the sling’s pouch, letting the weapon dangle from her right hand, swinging loosely. Will watched closely as she loaded the sling, then put out his hand.
“May I see?” he asked, pointing to the weighted pouch. She took out another shot and handed it to him, watching as he assessed its weight and heft.
“Lead,” he said. “Your mother used stones, as I recall.”
She nodded. “I used to use stones. I still would, at a pinch. But the weight varies and the shapes are irregular, and that affects your accuracy. This way, I know each shot is identical to the one before it. You wouldn’t shoot arrows that were different lengths and weights, would you?”
He nodded, appreciating the point. “Where do you get them?”
“I make them. I have a mould. I melt the lead and pour it in. Then I file off the little edges that form around the join in the mould.”