Tarantio and Brune had waited for almost an hour for a place to become free, and stood now on the extreme right of the line. ‘Let me see you strike the gold,’ said Tarantio.
Brune squinted at the circle. It was painted in a series of rings, yellow on the outer, followed by red, blue, green, and lastly a gold centre. ‘I don’t think I can,’ he said.
‘Just cock the bow, and we’ll make judgements later.’ Brune pulled an arrow from the earth and notched it to the string. ‘Wait,’ said Tarantio. ‘You did not check the cock feather.’
‘The what?’
‘Put down the bow,’ ordered Tarantio and Brune obeyed. Tarantio lifted an arrow and showed the flights
to the bewildered young man. ‘See how feathers are set into the shaft. Like a Y. Two sets of feathers are set close together, the third stands alone. This is the cock feather. When archers are told to cock their bow, this means that the cock feather should point away from the bow. Otherwise, it will strike the bow as it is loosed and deflect the arrow.’
‘I see,’ said Brune, taking up his bow again. Drawing the string back to his chin, the young man let fly. The shaft soared high over the target, striking the top of the sand-sack wall. ‘Was that good?’ he asked.
‘Had your opponent been fifteen feet tall, it would have scared him,’ said Tarantio. ‘Let me see the bow.’
It was cheaply made from a single piece of wood some four feet long. The best bows were constructed of elm or yew, and often skilled bowyers would create bonded versions incorporating both woods. Tarantio cocked an arrow and drew back the string. The pull was no more than twenty pounds. Loosing the shaft, he watched it punch weakly home in the blue inner ring.
‘You’re very good,’ said Brune admiringly.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Tarantio, ‘but even a master archer would have difficulty with this bow. You’d probably be better off throwing a stone at an advancing enemy. This does not have the power to punch through armour.’
‘I made it myself,’ said Brune. ‘I like it.’
‘Have you ever hit anything with it?’
‘Not yet,’ admitted the young man.
‘Trust me, Brune. If you are ever hunting deer with it, just run up and use it like a club.’
Several men approached them. The first, a tall slim bowman in a tunic of fine leather, bowed to Tarantio. ‘Are you planning to practise further, sir?’ he enquired. ‘I have little time myself and was hoping to loose a few
shafts.’ His dark hair was close-cropped, his head shaved in two crescents above the ears, and he sported a thin trident beard. His clothes were expensive, and he was obviously a nobleman. Knowing how arrogant the nobility could be, Tarantio was impressed by the courteous way he phrased his question.
‘No, you may have the target,’ said Tarantio amiably. ‘My friend and I are finished here. Where can I purchase a good bow?’
‘For you, or your friend?’ enquired the man.
‘For him.’
‘Have you considered a crossbow? I saw your friend shoot, and — with all respect – he does not have an eye for it.’
‘I fear you are right,’ agreed Tarantio. The slim bowman turned to one of his companions, calling him forward. The man held a black crossbow, its stock engraved with silver, which the bowman took and offered to Tarantio.
‘Let him try a shot or two with this,’ he suggested.
‘You are most kind.’
‘It is very pretty,’ said Brune. ‘How does it work?’
Tarantio touched the top of the crossbow to the ground, placing his foot inside the iron stirrup at the head, then drew back the string. Taking a small black bolt from the bowman he slid it home. ‘Aim it towards the target, then squeeze this lever under the stock,’ he told Brune. Brune lifted the crossbow and squeezed. The bolt vanished into the sand-sacks some eight feet to the left of the target.
‘That was closer,’ said Brune. ‘Wasn’t it?’
The men with the bowman laughed. The bowman himself moved to stand before the sandy-haired Brune, looking closely into his eyes. ‘Which is your bad eye?’ he asked.