She wasn’t. She could never be. The very fundamental definition of their father—at least in the stories—was his skill in archery. “We never saw him in his prime, when he was young and fighting the sheriff’s men in Sherwood. Do you ever think of that?”
He turned pensive. “No.”
“We will never be that good, not ever. I have never split an arrow.”
“Then perhaps today’s the day for it.”
Perhaps.
“Lady Mary, you do not use a longbow like your father?” The question came from the archer on her left, Ranulf FitzHugh, the son of a baron from Essex.
She looked up and down the line. Of the dozen men who’d come to shoot, two used Welsh-style longbows, including FitzHugh himself. Not even John used a longbow for this, though he could have.
“No need to, my lord,” she answered. “I’m not shooting deer or sniping at Normans from two hundred paces, am I?”
He chuckled nervously.
John added, “Think you the targets will escape if you don’t strike them hard enough, my lord Ranulf?”
Flustered, he said, “The use of the longbow requires special skill—”
“Yes, it does,” John said. “But you must remember, it doesn’t matter how deep your shaft plunges if you can’t find your mark!”
This was met with general, raucous laughter. Except from Ranulf, who turned away scowling.
“Really, John,” Mary chastised, and this too was met with laughter. “You drag us any lower, we’ll need a shovel to get out of the mire.”
“You let her talk to you that way?” a man from the viewing stand called to John.
He called back, “If you don’t have an older sister, you’ll never understand! They’re supposed to harangue their little brothers!”
With just a couple of quips and a ready laugh, John won over the crowd. Even the somber bishop smiled. Mary just had to follow his lead. She checked the crowd, found Eleanor sitting quietly, alert and interested. So, all was well there. John gave her an encouraging nod, which she returned.
“Archers ready!” the master of the field called.
Finally, she could be with herself, ignoring the other archers, the crowd, the king. Bow and arrow and target. This she knew. She wet a fingertip, raised it to the air, which was still, mostly. She nocked her arrow and drew.
* * *
Those who watched King Henry’s coronation archery tournament thought it was a joke at first, the two fresh-faced archers from Nottinghamshire acting like Robin Hood’s heirs, making jokes about shooting Normans—they glanced nervously at the king for guidance, wondering if they should laugh or be offended. It must have been a joke. Robin Hood was only a story.
The boy was good; all could tell he knew his way with the bow, had likely been shooting all his life. But the girl was the only one to hit the target dead center. Then she did it again, and again. It seemed at first she must have split her own arrow—just like in the stories. But no, the latest arrow only shaved off some of the shaft of the previous.
“Waste of a good arrow,” she muttered, when the page brought her arrows back and she studied the scarred shaft.
She seemed a quiet young woman, tall and lovely, and those among the spectators who knew her mother agreed that she was very like her, if not as refined. That came from growing up in the northern wilds, away from civilizing influences.
They shot a second set. Lady Mary once again made a tight cluster of arrows. The archery master cleared out half the archers, ordered the targets moved back. The two Locksley siblings remained, along with the surly man with the longbow, Ranulf FitzHugh, who kept glaring at the young lady.
As they lined up, fingers on bowstrings, Ranulf shouted with sudden temper, “You should not be here! It’s an insult!”
Likely, this was meant to make her flinch—the stewards and spectators nearby did. But she didn’t. She let out the tension in her bowstring and stared at him. Just stared, until he looked away.
“Switch places with me, Mary,” John murmured.
“It’s all right,” she replied. “Can’t let a little wind bother me, can I?”
Ranulf shot badly that round. When the archery master culled the field again, he was cut. So was the Locksley boy. He didn’t seem to mind. Only three archers remained.
The king called Lord John to him. The young man knelt at Henry’s feet.
“How does she do it?” Henry asked him.
One might have expected the son of Robin Hood to spin a tale, to say it was magic, their father’s spirit, the hand of God, some mysterious quality that only came from drinking the water of the springs that bubbled up in Sherwood Forest. He said nothing like this.
“Watch, sire. You see, she stands solid. Nothing wavers. When she aims, the aim stays true. She moves the same every time, drawing to exactly the same point on her chin. Her feet never shift. Now see Master Gilbert there. He’s very good, but he isn’t so consistent. He doesn’t hold himself still. His hips swing, his shoulders buckle. He stands a little different each time, so he cannot make his arrows stay true. This might be enough for him to hit a broad target, bring down a stag if there’s no wind. He’s a willow, and Mary is an oak.” John would never admit his pride of Mary to her outright, but he would brag to anyone, outside her hearing.
“I see it,” Henry said, wonderingly. “Have you just revealed to me the secret of Robin Hood’s shooting?”
John chuckled. “The secret is practice, nothing more. Anyone could tell you that.”
“She’s very good.”
Mary had just released her sixth arrow this round, and John held his breath, hoping this one would split one of the others. But no. It merely tore off some of the previous arrow’s fletching. That would annoy her.
“She once said that the sap of Sherwood Forest runs in the marrow of our bones. I think she’s right.”
A few of those there, one or two of the older barons and their attendants, a couple of grizzled foresters who had come away from their northern woodlands, had once watched a different archery contest and couldn’t help but make comparisons. The girl’s father had been flashier, but this one—this one was steadier. If she were a boy, they might wish her for their own guard. Put her on the wall in a siege, no one would get past her.
Ranulf kept calling out, shouting insults that grew harder to ignore. John watched the man closely, and when he picked up a small stone, hefting it as if meaning to throw it, he could no longer keep still.
“I beg your pardon, sire. I must leave you for a moment.” He didn’t wait for permission, which he should have done if he was being proper, but there wasn’t time. He went over and grabbed Ranulf’s wrist. The man was so startled, the stone dropped from his hand. “Can’t stand to have her win, is that it? Or are you so shamed at being outshot by a woman that you must hurt her?”
“What—”
He ought to call the man out. Draw swords, run him through right here for being churlish and unchivalrous and simply awful. But that would start something John likely couldn’t finish. That would be fighting this man on his own ground.
“Never mind,” John said, and donned a sly grin. “Shame fades in time.” He patted the man’s cheek, just shy of a slap.