With thick legs planted
sturdily apart, his body laid to the bow, his left arm motionless
as wood, his right bunched into a double curve of swelling muscles
as he stretched the white well-waxed string, he looked so keen and
fierce a fighter that the advancing line stopped for an instant at
the sight of him. Two or three loosed off their arrows, but the
shafts flew heavily against the head wind, and snaked along the
hard turf some score of paces short of the mark. One only, a
short bandy-legged man, whose squat figure spoke of enormous
muscular strength, ran swiftly in and then drew so strong a bow
that the arrow quivered in the ground at Aylward's very feet.
"It is Black Will of Lynchmere," said the bowman. "Many a match
have I shot with him, and I know well that no other man on the
Surrey marches could have sped such a shaft. I trust that you are
houseled and shriven, Will, for I have known you so long that I
would not have your damnation upon my soul."
He raised his bow as he spoke, and the string twanged with a rich
deep musical note. Aylward leaned upon his bow-stave as he keenly
watched the long swift flight of his shaft, skimming smoothly down
the wind.
"On him, on him! No, over him, by my hilt!" he cried. "There is
more wind than I had thought. Nay, nay, friend, now that I have
the length of you, you can scarce hope to loose again.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225