Human life was cheap in those stern days when the footmen of a
stricken army or the crew of a captured ship were slain without
any question or thought of mercy by the victors. War was a rude
game with death for the stake, and the forfeit was always claimed
on the one side and paid on the other without doubt or hesitation.
Only the knight might be spared, since his ransom made him worth
more alive than dead. To men trained in such a school, with death
forever hanging over their own heads, it may be well believed that
the slaying of two peasant murderers was a small matter.
And yet there was special reason why upon this occasion the bowmen
wished to keep the deed in their own hands. Ever since their
dispute aboard the Basilisk, there had been ill-feeling betwixt
Bartholomew the old bald-headed bowyer, and long Ned Widdington
the Dalesman, which had ended in a conflict at Dinan, in which not
only they, but a dozen of their friends had been laid upon the
cobble-stones. The dispute raged round their respective knowledge
and skill with the bow, and now some quick wit amongst the
soldiers had suggested a grim fashion in which it should be put to
the proof, once for all, which could draw the surer shaft.
A thick wood lay two hundred paces from the road upon which the
archers stood. A stretch of smooth grassy sward lay between. The
two peasants were led out fifty yards from the road, with their
faces toward the wood.
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