XIV

THE QUEEN OF ARCHERY

As the King appeared before the pavilion, a bugle rang out, the soldiers presented halberds, and all talk ceased sharply.

“My good friends,” said he, “I have brought you here to-day to test your skill with a weapon that once made an English army the most feared in all the world.  In a word, I am curious to know how steadily you can draw the cord and lay your bodies to the bow.  Yonder are the butts, and here the staves and the draw line.  It is but a poor one hundred paces to the nearest clout; and as that will be too beggarly a distance for you, my lords, you shall use the second.  The first has been placed for the fair dames who are to shoot with you, if they will.”

And taking the hand of the Queen, who had come forth with the Countess of Clare and was standing beside him, he led the way to the near end of the clearing where, on a rustic table built of boughs, were piled an assortment of yew staves and arrows of seasoned ash, with cords of deer hide, wrist gloves, baldrics, and all the paraphernalia essential to the archer’s outfit.

“Let the lots be drawn,” he commanded; and a page came forward with the disc-bag.

As soon as De Lacy saw that Beatrix would participate in the contest, he chose with much care a stave best adapted for her wrist, and picking out a string to correspond and three grey-goose-feather shafts of a proper length and thickness, he brought them to her.

“Do you not shoot?” she asked.

“Yes—­but with small hope.  The French do not run to the long bow, and while once I could ring the blanc I am sadly out of practice.”

“Ring it now . . . you can,” she said softly.

He looked at her hesitatingly.  “Tell me,” he said, coming a bit nearer; “tell me . . . will you be sorry if I fail?”

But the old habit held her and she veered off.  “Assuredly . . . it would be poor friendship if I were not.” . . .  A bowstring twanged and the crowd applauded.  “Come,” she exclaimed, “the match has begun.”

“And is this my answer?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir Insistent . . . until the ride back,” and left him.

The luck of the discs had made the Countess of Clare the last to shoot.  When she came forward to the line the butt was dotted over with the feathered shafts; but the white eye that looked out from their midst was still unharmed, though the Duchess of Buckingham and Lady Clifton had grazed its edge.  Beatrix had slipped the arrows through her girdle, and plucking out one she fitted it to the string with easy grace.  Then without pausing to measure the distance she raised the bow, and drawing with the swift but steady motion of the right wrist got only by hard practice, and seemingly without taking aim, she sped the shaft toward the mark.

“Bravo!” exclaimed the King, as it quivered in the white.