Isabelle examined each bow, all of them finely crafted and well used, many of them taller than she was. She wondered how many, if any, Robin had previously wielded. She stepped back, clearing her throat.
“I shall use my own bow.”
Allan raised both brows dramatically, the bets among the men shifting and swaying at her proclamation. “The lady shall use her own bow! And now, Merry Men, for our challenger!”
The crowd roared as Allan swept his hand to one side, right past Isabelle. She turned, giving Adam a questioning look, but he shook his head.
“Oh, not me, sister,” Adam said, stepping aside. Behind him the crowd parted as Patrick dragged a young woman forward, small and compact, her expression as sharp as the short sword she wore at her belt.
“Who in their bloody ale-soaked mind challenged me to a shooting contest?” the girl groused, whipping a long, dark braid over her shoulder.
Isabelle’s jaw went slack at the sight of the girl, dressed in the same garb as the men and loaded with twice as many weapons. She wore them with a comfort that suggested she knew how to use them, and the look the girl pinned on Isabelle made her suddenly doubt every shot she had ever made. For a brief, ludicrous moment, she imagined Sister Catherine trying to assign penitentiary chores to this girl, and the thought made her want to laugh aloud.
“Helena,” said Adam to the girl, not bothering to suppress his smile. “Meet Isabelle. Isabelle, this is Helena. Our best shooter. Well, second best, but Robin’s not here, is he? The sister would challenge you for a place in the Merry Men, Helena.”
Isabelle cleared her throat, the manners her mother instilled in her taking over as she stepped forward and gave a small nod. “Pleased to meet you, Helena.”
Helena looked her up and down. “Not bloody likely. Whose joke is this? If Little’s still sore about the last thrashing I gave him, this isn’t much of a punishment.”
“No.” Isabelle faltered, glancing at the others. “I do not…This is not a joke. I wish to challenge you for a place among the Men.”
Helena crossed her arms, her lips pressed thin. “Well, then, I hope you’ve got somewhere else to sleep tonight, sister. Let’s shoot.”
“One arrow per archer at each target,” Allan said, waving to the three targets set up down the range. “Helena will shoot brown, Isabelle will shoot white. Whoever’s aim is truest wins the challenge. Are the archers ready?”
Isabelle chanced a glance at Helena before nodding. The girl did not return the glance, her eyes trained on the bales down the range, the first set at ten paces, the second at twenty, and the farthest one at thirty paces. Patrick trotted to stand outside the range near the first target, giving a wave when he was in position to call the winner.
Allan raised his arms. “As our champion, Helena will shoot first.”
Helena stepped up to the line in front of the first target, nocking the arrow with brown fletching and lifting the bow without preamble. Isabelle had to admire her stance, wide and strong, not even a tremble of emotion before she loosed the arrow. Her shot flew straight to the center of the target even though she’d hardly sighted down the range. The men gave up a cheer when Patrick confirmed the hit, but Helena merely grunted. She looked at Isabelle expectantly.
“Your turn, sister,” she said, tossing the last word out like an insult.
Isabelle stepped up to the line and planted her feet resolutely. She had half a mind to take the same careless approach to her first shot, but she suspected Helena had done it to lure her into making a mistake. She would take her time and plan the shot. Her heart pounded against her chest even though she’d made such simple shots thousands of times. They’d never meant anything like this before, though. Now, as she checked the strength of the bow and ran her fingers along the fletching of her arrow, the full import of her actions hit her. She was not only shooting to prove herself worthy, she was shooting for the right to fight for her family. One false move, one moment of hesitation, would end her chances.
“For Mother,” she whispered, sighting down the range and letting the arrow fly.
The arrow hissed through the air, striking the target with a resounding thunk. A murmur rippled through the gathered onlookers as the white fletching nestled next to brown, so close it seemed they had sprung from the same shaft. Helena rolled her shoulders and straightened her spine, eyeing Isabelle guardedly.
Patrick squatted before the target, his head jerking back in surprise as he turned to the crowd. “White takes the target.”
Isabelle pressed her lips together to suppress the smile that rose up, her toes curling in her boots with the victory. Conversation rumbled through the outlaws, several of them shoving forward to get a better look at her. Isabelle met Adam’s gaze, her chin lifted high. One side of his mouth curled up and he gave her a wink that made her flush.
“I suppose that little bow has a bit of power to it after all,” he murmured.
Allan motioned to the next target. “Isabelle takes the next shot.”
She stepped up to the line in front of the second target, taking the same care and precision before letting loose her arrow. It thudded into the center straight on, raising a murmur of appreciation from several of the outlaws. The attitude toward her shifted as Allan clapped her on the back. The sisters had never treated her skill with the bow as anything other than an irritating necessity, a means of procuring meat and keeping her out of their way. But here, among the outlaws, it was a skill worthy of praise.
Helena stepped up to the line and took her stance, this time lining up her shot carefully and sighting down the range toward the target. There was no flippancy in her movements, no casual dismissal of the challenge. She was alert and focused, her hand drawing back to her ear as she stretched the bow into a deep curve. When she let go, the arrow whistled with deadly precision toward the target, hitting the center beside Isabelle’s arrow. Patrick trotted to the target to examine the results.
“She’s just nudged out white,” he called out. “Right down the center. Point goes to brown!”
Helena smirked, drawing another arrow and casually checking the fletching. Isabelle let out the breath she was holding with a deflated sigh, the confidence once again leaching out of her. In any other situation, she would have admired the outlaw girl’s prowess with the bow, might have even asked her for insight into her technique. But now she only wished the girl were not so much better than her at her only useful skill.
“The score stands one to one,” Allan declared. “This is our final shot, for the win. Helena shoots first.”
Helena stepped up to the line, sighting down to the final target thirty paces away. Even in the pinkening light of dawn the target was no more than a suggestion of an outline, a patch of red and white in the deep shadows. Isabelle stared hard at Helena’s rigid shoulders, willing her to miss. The outlaw girl took care, bending the bow in a narrow arc as far back as her arm would allow. The arrow flew straight and true, sinking several inches into the red center of the target. The outlaws gave a rousing cheer of support for their champion. It seemed a foregone conclusion to them that the battle was won.
Helena leveled her gaze at Isabelle. “Beat that, sister.”
Isabelle stepped up to the line, holding her bow down while she considered her options. From where she stood, the arrow looked dead-on, and she could do no more than hope to hit the same shot. Even if she split the arrow, it wasn’t enough. She needed not just to win, but to win them over. She needed something more dramatic, something to play to their theatrical tastes. A shot to best all other shots.