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Authors: Cynthia Sally Haggard
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soldier stuffed with straw. His tunic bore the royal arms of France.
A knot of perhaps twenty archers gathered a little distance away. They checked the horn knocks on their bows to be sure they held the string properly, waxed the bowstrings to ensure the arrows flew easily, and wound silk thread through the flights of each arrow to hold the goose feather quills firmly to the arrow shaft. As we approached, Blaybourne separated from the crowd, smiling and bowing. He was attired in a brown linen tunic and hose, topped with a leather jerkin, an outfit that blended in perfectly with the other men on the Rouen garrison.
“I am charmed that such lovely ladies should grace our archery contest—“.
“Who wins?” Bess asked, fixing her green eyes on him. “Is it the person who shoots the fastest?”
“Or perhaps the one who is most accurate?” asked Margaret.
“Or perhaps the tallest and most well-favored gentleman?” put in Lisette smiling up at him.
“And what think you, my lady?” asked Blaybourne, turning towards me.
“Shooting accurately and quickly are important, of course,” I replied, “but perhaps we should also look at how well kept each archer’s kit is, because that gives some indication of his character.”
He bowed.
“Or perhaps,” I put in laughing, as a sudden thought struck me, “it should be how untidy it is.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said. “How untidy it is, on the grounds that an archer who can shoot both fast and accurately and yet has the most untidy tackle, must have a very quick and agile mind in order to be able to find what he needs in the midst of such shambles.”
He clapped his hands and laughed. “An unusual contest. So let me see, the other ladies will judge speed and accuracy.”
I smiled.
“And you, my lady, will judge for yourself how untidy he is.”
Everyone murmured assent, and we arranged ourselves on the benches under the oak tree like brightly colored birds. The marshal held up his hand, then let it fall. The archers nocked and drew. They aimed, then let fly with hand following string almost as swiftly as the arrows flew. Bow strings twanged, arrows whistled, as the archers reached for the next arrow in belt or quiver, to nock and draw, aim and let fly, in a lethal, unrelenting hail of arrows.
Two archers lined up at a time to shoot, standing sideways to the direction of the target and drawing to ear or jaw. By this method of doublets—which I had suggested—we eventually narrowed the contestants down to Blaybourne and his rival, also tall and barrel-chested, but dark, scowling, and rough in his manners.
Both stood there: the scowling churl frowning as he nocked and drew with his right hand, while Blaybourne faced him, wearing gloves of soft tanned leather, using his left hand to knock and draw. Both arrows flew, but the one from Blaybourne pierced the heart of the stuffed French soldier, who toppled over into a heap of straw and old clothes. There was a cheer, followed by laughter as Blaybourne came back to receive our congratulations.
Even Isabel was quite warm in her praise.
“I’ve not seen a left-handed archer before,” she remarked. “Can you shoot with your right hand too?”
“I’m sure he can,” put in Lisette, her usually pasty complexion tinged with pink. She drained her cup of wine. “He could pierce anybody’s heart with either hand,” she giggled.
Isabel looked at her, but Lisette drained another cup of wine.
“My lady Cecylee, would you like to inspect the archers?” inquired Blaybourne with a bow.
Smiling, I took his arm. “It has to be suitably untidy,” I remarked, tilting my head. “Somewhat untidy will not be good enough.”
“And what does my lady consider to be suitably untidy?” he asked laughing.
I felt a flutter in my chest, so I frowned.
“You take this very seriously.”
“Indeed I do. I do not give my favors away lightly.”
Blaybourne raised his eyebrows but did not reply.
Each archer
A knot of perhaps twenty archers gathered a little distance away. They checked the horn knocks on their bows to be sure they held the string properly, waxed the bowstrings to ensure the arrows flew easily, and wound silk thread through the flights of each arrow to hold the goose feather quills firmly to the arrow shaft. As we approached, Blaybourne separated from the crowd, smiling and bowing. He was attired in a brown linen tunic and hose, topped with a leather jerkin, an outfit that blended in perfectly with the other men on the Rouen garrison.
“I am charmed that such lovely ladies should grace our archery contest—“.
“Who wins?” Bess asked, fixing her green eyes on him. “Is it the person who shoots the fastest?”
“Or perhaps the one who is most accurate?” asked Margaret.
“Or perhaps the tallest and most well-favored gentleman?” put in Lisette smiling up at him.
“And what think you, my lady?” asked Blaybourne, turning towards me.
“Shooting accurately and quickly are important, of course,” I replied, “but perhaps we should also look at how well kept each archer’s kit is, because that gives some indication of his character.”
He bowed.
“Or perhaps,” I put in laughing, as a sudden thought struck me, “it should be how untidy it is.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said. “How untidy it is, on the grounds that an archer who can shoot both fast and accurately and yet has the most untidy tackle, must have a very quick and agile mind in order to be able to find what he needs in the midst of such shambles.”
He clapped his hands and laughed. “An unusual contest. So let me see, the other ladies will judge speed and accuracy.”
I smiled.
“And you, my lady, will judge for yourself how untidy he is.”
Everyone murmured assent, and we arranged ourselves on the benches under the oak tree like brightly colored birds. The marshal held up his hand, then let it fall. The archers nocked and drew. They aimed, then let fly with hand following string almost as swiftly as the arrows flew. Bow strings twanged, arrows whistled, as the archers reached for the next arrow in belt or quiver, to nock and draw, aim and let fly, in a lethal, unrelenting hail of arrows.
Two archers lined up at a time to shoot, standing sideways to the direction of the target and drawing to ear or jaw. By this method of doublets—which I had suggested—we eventually narrowed the contestants down to Blaybourne and his rival, also tall and barrel-chested, but dark, scowling, and rough in his manners.
Both stood there: the scowling churl frowning as he nocked and drew with his right hand, while Blaybourne faced him, wearing gloves of soft tanned leather, using his left hand to knock and draw. Both arrows flew, but the one from Blaybourne pierced the heart of the stuffed French soldier, who toppled over into a heap of straw and old clothes. There was a cheer, followed by laughter as Blaybourne came back to receive our congratulations.
Even Isabel was quite warm in her praise.
“I’ve not seen a left-handed archer before,” she remarked. “Can you shoot with your right hand too?”
“I’m sure he can,” put in Lisette, her usually pasty complexion tinged with pink. She drained her cup of wine. “He could pierce anybody’s heart with either hand,” she giggled.
Isabel looked at her, but Lisette drained another cup of wine.
“My lady Cecylee, would you like to inspect the archers?” inquired Blaybourne with a bow.
Smiling, I took his arm. “It has to be suitably untidy,” I remarked, tilting my head. “Somewhat untidy will not be good enough.”
“And what does my lady consider to be suitably untidy?” he asked laughing.
I felt a flutter in my chest, so I frowned.
“You take this very seriously.”
“Indeed I do. I do not give my favors away lightly.”
Blaybourne raised his eyebrows but did not reply.
Each archer
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