Longbow Girl (21 page)

T
he clanging of the gong echoed through the Black Castle. It was time for the feast. Dressed in gleamingly white tights, a red-and-green doublet with a frill that at least offered some level of cover below his hips, James was escorted from his room by the scarred man-at-arms, Brioc.

‘No rapier for me?' James asked, eyeing Brioc's weapon.

‘Not a man-at-arms, are you?'

‘No, but I am a lord.'

Brioc shot him a look of disdain. ‘Come on. Wouldn't do to keep His Majesty waiting . . .'

As James followed the hordes of guests heading into the Great Hall, Brioc suddenly paused and bowed. ‘My Lord,' he said, addressing a tall, hard-faced man who James immediately recognized as his ancestor, the twelfth earl.

‘Who have we here, Brioc?' The earl asked.

James pushed down a quick stab of fear. He could feel instinctively, and see from the look in the man's eyes that this wasn't one of the useless de Courcy earls. This man was a red-in-tooth-and-claw warrior, and he looked as if he'd have been quite happy to lunge at James with the rapier that hung from his waist.

James gave a slight bow. ‘I am Lord James de Courcy. Of Château Clermont.'

The earl's eyes widened and he subjected James to a quick and ruthless scrutiny. His eyes came to rest on James's hand. He reached out, grabbed it, turned it palm up.

He reached out his finger, traced it over James's signet ring. And froze. He opened his mouth to speak but his words were drowned out by a sudden peal of trumpets, followed by shouts:

‘The king! The king!'

The earl let go of James's hand and bent to whisper something into Brioc's ear. Whatever it was could not have been good. James felt a flash of fear as the man-at-arms turned and gave him a ferocious look.

Then all eyes turned to the king, to Henry VIII as he processed surrounded by his entourage of men-at-arms into the hall. He was draped in velvets and furs, shoulders gigantic, glittering with gold chains and jewelled rings.

The Countess de Courcy appeared and together with the earl, led the king to the largest table, seating him between them. The countess wore a gown of rose-gold silk and velvet, heavily embroidered, fitted tight over her waist to show off her
youthful figure. She was adorned with the de Courcy rubies.

James's heart was hammering.
Now! Get out, now . . .
He began to turn, found himself flanked by Brioc and Cranog who had suddenly materialized.

‘Wrong way, Lord James. Forgetting our etiquette, aren't we?' whispered Cranog. ‘When His Majesty sits, we sit.'

Together the men-at-arms herded James towards one of the two long tables, furthest away from the king, talking, smiling all the while as if it were nothing more than a magnificent social occasion. They took their seats on either side of him. James felt trapped.

Once the king had reached for his first bite of peacock leg, Brioc and Cranog tucked in. The table groaned with meats. There was venison and lamb and chicken but there were also what looked suspiciously like swans. James had no appetite, but he forced himself to eat.

The dining hall fell silent as the king pushed to his feet.

‘I would like to thank my gracious hosts, the Earl and Countess de Courcy,' he declared. He paused, turned, offered them regal smiles. ‘We have had a successful few days hunting. We speared two dozen boar and a score of those wretched Welsh Mountain ponies that corrupt the breeding of my war horses.'

There was an eruption of cheers and claps and shouts of approval. James looked around in disbelief. He thought of Merry's ancestor, wondered if some of those ponies might have belonged to him.

Then the king opened his mouth to speak and, as if a spell had been cast, everyone fell silent once more. ‘Even the fickle
Welsh weather has been kind to us, and now this magnificent feast. To offer the smallest reciprocation, I declare a tourney to be held, two days hence.' More roars from his minions, more clapping and clashing of goblets.

‘We shall have jousting, we shall have pitching the bar, we shall have archery. This part of the world is famed for the prowess of its bowmen. I look forward to seeing it with my own eyes.' The king turned to the earl and exchanged what James could only call a conspiratorial look with him.

‘On behalf of my hosts, I issue a summons,' he declared, his voice booming around the hall. ‘I call upon the Owen family of Nanteos Farm to send forth a fit and able longbowman. He must enter my contest. He must acquit himself with distinction. He must honour the pledge made by his forebears to the Black Prince.'

James felt his heart thudding. The trap for Merry had been set.

The king sat down to tumultuous applause. Guests clapped, and banged the table with fists or pewter tankards, slopping liquid over the wood. The earl was banging the hilt of a dagger against the table, eyes shining with triumph. Then he turned in James's direction, and gave a slight nod to Brioc.

Brioc's hand closed on James's arm.

‘I think you had better come with me,' he said grimly.

‘Why?' asked James with all the belligerence he could muster.

‘Because thieves have no place at the king's feast,
Lord
James.'

J
ames felt the breath of cold, musty air as they neared the dungeons. Brioc touched his back with the end of his rapier, forcing him down the stairs.

Cranog laughed. ‘Feel the noose,
Lord
James? Feel it tightening against that noble throat of yours?'

James bit back an answer. His brain seemed to be running at a thousand miles an hour as he tried to navigate this whole new territory. Captivity; sword; men-at-arms; thief; dungeons. What on earth made them think he was a thief? It seemed to have something to do with his ring, but that was impossible.

A fire burnt in the lower hallway, casting out scant warmth and coils of smoke that had nowhere to go. A heavy man in rough clothes sat by the fire, half dozing. He jumped to his feet as the trio approached.

James recognized the nightwatchman.

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘The Lord James?' he asked.

Cranog gave a derisive laugh. ‘Thief and liar, more like. Lock him up!'

Brioc prodded him on with his sword towards a cell at the far end of the dungeon, where it was darkest, coldest.

As they passed by empty cells, James saw a sudden movement. A man like a Viking warrior with long, fair hair and a heavy beard got to his feet and gripped the bars with huge hands.
Merry's ancestor
. It had to be. James met his eyes: intelligent, curious, charged with the pent-up fury of a caged animal.

Brioc pushed him on, into an open cell and pulled shut the door with a clang that echoed through the dungeons. The jailer took a large bunch of keys from a pocket in his tunic and locked him in.

‘Pray to your god,
Lord
James,' mocked Brioc, grinning at James through the bars.

The puppy-faced Cranog gave a parody of a bow, then turned and, laughing with Brioc, walked away.

James listened to their dying footsteps. He stood in his cell in the sudden, ringing silence. Locked up. A prisoner. No one would come and rescue him. In this time – or his.

He could hear a furtive scrabbling sound: rats. The smell of smoke, damp and bad food hung in the frigid air. He sat on the rough bench, pulled a thin blanket around his shoulders and
rubbed at his face. How had it come to this? How had this nightmare unfolded? He knew the answer: curiosity and anger that Merry was keeping secrets from him. Now he knew why. For his own good. The sixteenth century was not a playground for the privileged children of the twenty-first. He got up, paced the confines of his cell. Ten steps took him right around.

He would not be that privileged child, then, he decided. He would become someone else, anyone else, whoever he needed to be to survive. And to escape. The first thing he would not do was despair. Merry was out there somewhere, navigating the past, carving the future. So would he. No one was coming to rescue him. He'd have to rescue himself.

Then he remembered. Today was his sixteenth birthday. He was meant to be signing with Manchester United. He felt a rush of fury. He'd followed his dreams, and in some vicious twist of fate it hadn't been his own parents who'd got in the way, but his ancestors! But the fury gave him hope and it gave him purpose. No one was going to get in his way.
Somehow
, he would manage to escape and return home.

T
ime stretched, James had no way of measuring it, but perhaps an hour later he heard footsteps. Brioc and Cranog appeared, carrying flaming torches. Behind them walked the earl. And the countess.

The jailer fumbled with the keys. Fat fingers slow and clumsy. The earl hissed with impatience. ‘Snap to it, Aeron!'

Finally the jailer had the lock and the door open. Brioc yanked James out into the hallway between the facing rows of cells. James flew forward, steadied himself, glowered at Brioc. Then he turned and faced the earl.

‘Who
are
you?' snapped the man.

‘Lord James de Courcy.'

‘So you say,' mused the earl with a cold smile. ‘Shipwrecked, says my wife. A tall story! You're nothing but a thief and
an opportunist.'

The earl reached out, grabbed James's hand and yanked off the ring. He turned it so that he could read the inscription inside. He ran his fingers over the rim and his face tightened with fury.

‘As I thought.'

He drew back his hand and administered a full, backhanded slap to James's face. Like King Henry, he wore large, ornate rings. James felt blood gush down his cheek as the jewels cut through flesh.

He wanted to lunge at the earl, knew that would only bring him more of a beating, so he just stared at his ancestor, steeling himself for whatever came next.

The earl turned to his wife, contempt on his face. ‘How could you be such a fool as to trust this boy, this impostor?'

‘Because I thought he was kin!' exclaimed the countess, uncowed by the earl's ferocity.

‘Kin! He's nothing but a thief!' hissed the earl. He held out the ring. ‘He took you in, you little fool. That's
my
signet ring. The one that disappeared. Somehow this little villain got in here and stole my ring. It's a good job I came back when I did. Should have thrown him in the dungeons the second he turned up here!'

James's mind raced. How was it possible that
he
had the earl's ring?

‘I saw the ring before; he showed it to me when he arrived,' protested the countess, green eyes flashing with indignation. ‘All de Courcy men over sixteen years of age have such rings! I
couldn't
know it was yours!'

‘Mine has a tiny nick on the edge that makes it unique!' snapped the earl, holding up the ring, showing the mark to his wife. ‘You might have thought to be on your guard after Zephyr was stolen right under your nose.'

‘The one-eyed witch cannot hide for long,' the countess declared. ‘Our agents are searching and they'll find her.'‘

The earl turned back to James. ‘We haven't suffered thefts here at the Black Castle for many years. Then the one-eyed thief turns up. Then
you
turn up. I don't believe in coincidence.'

James tried to shut down his mind, to blank out all thoughts so his face revealed nothing. He just looked back at the earl, into his hard eyes, and he waited.

‘Do you know her?' asked the earl. ‘Are you in league with her?'

James shook his head. ‘I'm in league with no one.'

The earl just looked at him for a while. James could sense the violence in the man. He waited as the blood still gushed from his face. He felt it running down his chest. He prepared himself for another blow. But it didn't come. Instead the earl turned away, addressed the jailer.

‘Lock him up. No food. No water. We'll see how he sticks to his story when the hunger spasms grip.'