being able to budge it from the wood, at least not without perhaps snapping it off. Yes, indeed, this was not a bolt but an arrow, a fully fletched one with a shaft longer than a bolt.
“Drake,” she cried, “climb in here and pull or pry this arrow from where it stuck.”
He tied his horse’s reins to something outside and slid in from the saddle as if he were walking the yardarm of a tossing ship. He adeptly avoided her wide skirts and looked where she pointed. She opened the curtains of the side it had shot through to give him more light, for two guards blocked her view of the forest now.
“Ah,” he said, “driven deep, as if the shooter were close, when he obviously was not or someone would have spotted him. And to place it so, through all those thick trees and hanging foliage …”
“You sound as if you admire his skill.”
“I’m afraid I do, though I am thankful he was just a whit off—unless, of course, he was right on target.”
“Who was his target, do you think? It was not my falconer, Fenton, who stood between you and me this time but my herb woman. Had you thought that you might be the target as well as I again?”
“Yes—yes, of course.”
“Then what do you mean that the shooter might have been right on target?”
“That he might have only wished to affright you—again—or to warn you this second time. Or me.”
“Exactly, Captain. Both of us—either of us—could have been the bull’s-eye again, to be warned or killed. But warned to do what—to flee from whence we came? To simply fear whoever hates us? For it seems the marksman is lurking in each place we stop or pass, and that, of course, means it could be someone either stalking our progress or in our progress.”
“Yes, I agree,” he said, frowning. His usually commanding voice sounded shaky now, but perhaps that was from the jolting of the coach.
“I can hardly turn everyone in this large retinue into spies watching each other for who disappears into the forest from time to time,” she muttered.
Hastily, as if to change the subject, he said, “I shall pull the arrow out and try not to snap it off.” He started to say something else, then tugged and wrenched the arrow out. “At least four inches into that hard oak,” he reported. “To come the distance it did—but longbowmen are few and far between in this modern age,” he added, as if to himself.
“Longbowmen? You think that arrow was shot from a longbow? Those went out with my father’s reign.”
“I say that because this arrow,” he said, glaring at it in his big hands, “must have come a long ways, and an arrow cannot be shot by a crossbow, which also would have the distance. A shortbow would have been useless from a ways within the forest fringe.”
“Yes, surely someone would not have shot from the first line of trees, or he could have been seen. And if he were farther back, the thick foliage should have gotten in his way, especially with a shortbow. So I—or we—may have now been shot at by a crossbowman and mayhap a longbowman who should be nearly extinct but for decrepit, old men …”
“Well, it cannot be a marksman back from the dead or some sort of forest phantom. Your Majesty, I must tell you that I noted both my men were missing when this arrow was shot,” Drake blurted. “I searched for them and found them emerging from the forest far behind the end of the procession. They both had loose innards today, they say, and were seeing to nature’s urgent call. They had no weapons of any sort on their persons and, I believe, could not so swiftly have covered the distance in the forest from the place from which this came to where they emerged, nor, I can assure you, do they have crossbows or longbows in their saddle packs.”
“I see,” she said, taking the arrow from him. “That was quite a lengthy recital—confessional, perhaps. It is good you acted quickly and told me quickly. I charge you to keep an eye on them both.”
“I
“Drake,” she cried, “climb in here and pull or pry this arrow from where it stuck.”
He tied his horse’s reins to something outside and slid in from the saddle as if he were walking the yardarm of a tossing ship. He adeptly avoided her wide skirts and looked where she pointed. She opened the curtains of the side it had shot through to give him more light, for two guards blocked her view of the forest now.
“Ah,” he said, “driven deep, as if the shooter were close, when he obviously was not or someone would have spotted him. And to place it so, through all those thick trees and hanging foliage …”
“You sound as if you admire his skill.”
“I’m afraid I do, though I am thankful he was just a whit off—unless, of course, he was right on target.”
“Who was his target, do you think? It was not my falconer, Fenton, who stood between you and me this time but my herb woman. Had you thought that you might be the target as well as I again?”
“Yes—yes, of course.”
“Then what do you mean that the shooter might have been right on target?”
“That he might have only wished to affright you—again—or to warn you this second time. Or me.”
“Exactly, Captain. Both of us—either of us—could have been the bull’s-eye again, to be warned or killed. But warned to do what—to flee from whence we came? To simply fear whoever hates us? For it seems the marksman is lurking in each place we stop or pass, and that, of course, means it could be someone either stalking our progress or in our progress.”
“Yes, I agree,” he said, frowning. His usually commanding voice sounded shaky now, but perhaps that was from the jolting of the coach.
“I can hardly turn everyone in this large retinue into spies watching each other for who disappears into the forest from time to time,” she muttered.
Hastily, as if to change the subject, he said, “I shall pull the arrow out and try not to snap it off.” He started to say something else, then tugged and wrenched the arrow out. “At least four inches into that hard oak,” he reported. “To come the distance it did—but longbowmen are few and far between in this modern age,” he added, as if to himself.
“Longbowmen? You think that arrow was shot from a longbow? Those went out with my father’s reign.”
“I say that because this arrow,” he said, glaring at it in his big hands, “must have come a long ways, and an arrow cannot be shot by a crossbow, which also would have the distance. A shortbow would have been useless from a ways within the forest fringe.”
“Yes, surely someone would not have shot from the first line of trees, or he could have been seen. And if he were farther back, the thick foliage should have gotten in his way, especially with a shortbow. So I—or we—may have now been shot at by a crossbowman and mayhap a longbowman who should be nearly extinct but for decrepit, old men …”
“Well, it cannot be a marksman back from the dead or some sort of forest phantom. Your Majesty, I must tell you that I noted both my men were missing when this arrow was shot,” Drake blurted. “I searched for them and found them emerging from the forest far behind the end of the procession. They both had loose innards today, they say, and were seeing to nature’s urgent call. They had no weapons of any sort on their persons and, I believe, could not so swiftly have covered the distance in the forest from the place from which this came to where they emerged, nor, I can assure you, do they have crossbows or longbows in their saddle packs.”
“I see,” she said, taking the arrow from him. “That was quite a lengthy recital—confessional, perhaps. It is good you acted quickly and told me quickly. I charge you to keep an eye on them both.”
“I
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