I LOOKED OVER my copies of the depositions in my room. Then I went over to the window, drawn by the sound of voices. Hugh and David were by the butts. Fulstowe was with them, Barak and Feaveryear too. I went downstairs to join them. The sun had come out again, making the wet grass sparkle prettily as I walked up to the group. There was still a little wind, high white clouds scudding across the sky. Hugh was instructing Feaveryear in pulling a bow, while David stood watching with Barak. Fulstowe looked on with an indulgent smile. Arrows had been stuck in the grass, their white-feathered tips reminding me of what had happened in the forest.
Feaveryear had put on a long, thick shooting glove and held a beautiful bow, a little shorter and thinner than those I had seen the soldiers use, the outer side golden and the inner creamy white, polished to bright smoothness. Decorated horn nocks were carved into teardrop shapes at each end. Feaveryear had fitted a steel-tipped arrow to the bow, and was pulling with all his strength. His thin arms trembled, but he could only pull the hempen string back a few inches. His face was red and sweating.
Beside him Hugh held up an arrow, watching as the wind ruffled the goose-feather fletches slightly. 'Swing your body a little to the left, Master Samuel,' he said quietly. 'You have to take account of the wind. Now bend your left leg back, and push forward, as though you were making a throw.' Feaveryear hesitated. 'See, I will show you.' Hugh took the bow. He stood, thrusting his weight backward as he pulled on the string. Through his shirt I saw the outline of tight, corded muscles.
'Concentrate on the target,' he told Feaveryear, 'not the arrow. Think only of that and loose. Now, try it.'
Feaveryear took the bow again, glanced round at us, then pulled the bow back a little further and loosed the arrow with a grunt. It rose a little in the air, then buried its point in the grass a short way off. David laughed and slapped his thigh. Fulstowe smiled sardonically. 'Well done, Feaveryear,' David said sarcastically. 'Last time it only dropped from the bow!'
'I am useless,' Feaveryear said with a sad laugh. 'I succeed only in pulling my arms from their sockets.'
'Ignore David,' Hugh said. 'It takes years of practice to strengthen your arms to pull a bow properly. But anyone may learn, and see, already you improve a little.'
'It is hard work.'
' "The fostering of shooting is labour, that companion of virtue," ' I quoted from
Hugh looked at me with interest. 'You have read the book, Master Shardlake.'
'He makes some pretty phrases.'
'It is a great book,' Hugh replied earnestly.
'I would not go quite so high as that.' I noticed Hugh and David had both been shaved, David's dark stubble reduced to the merest shadow on his cheeks while Hugh had a little cut by one of the scars on his neck. 'Perhaps we may discuss the book sometime.'
'I should like that, Master Shardlake. I have little opportunity to discuss books. David can barely read,' he added jestingly, but with an edge. David scowled.
'I shoot better than you,' he said. 'Here, Feaveryear, I will show you how a truly strong archer shoots.' He picked up his own bow from the grass. Like Hugh's it was beautifully made, though not quite so highly polished.
'Such achievement for a youngling,' Barak said, straight faced. David frowned, unsure if he were jesting. Then he strung the bow, bent to it, came up and loosed the arrow. It sped through the air and hit the target, missing the centre by a few inches.
'Not quite so good as Hugh,' Fulstowe said quietly, with a little smile.
David rounded on him. 'I have the greater strength. Set the butts further off and I would beat him easily.'
'I think perhaps your argument is groundless,' I ventured to the boys. '
'David and I have been jesting and bickering these last five years, sir,' Hugh said wearily. 'It is what we do, the subject matters not. Tell me,' he added earnestly, 'what is it you find to criticize in
'His liking for war. And his praise for the King has a crawling quality.'
'Should we not foster the arts of war to protect ourselves?' Hugh asked with quiet intensity. 'Are we to allow the French to invade and have their will with us?'
'No. But we should ask how we came to this. If the King had not invaded France last year—'
'For hundreds of years Gascony and Normandy were ours.' For the first time I heard Hugh speak with real passion. 'It was our birthright from the Normans before upstart French nobles started calling themselves kings—'
'So King Henry would say.'
'He is right.'
