Will looked at the Genovesan. 'You thought you'd destroyed the evidence, didn't you? You poured the water out of the jug onto the ground so nobody would ever know.'

Tennyson saw the doubt suddenly flicker in his henchman's eyes as they fastened on the tumbler. Will raised his voice now so that more people could hear him.

'But I got to the tent first. And I poured some of the water into this mug. I thought Tennyson might try something like that. I was curious to see what this poisoner would do when he got there.'

He looked to Ferris, who had risen from his throne and moved forward to the front of the enclosure.

'You majesty, this is a sample of the poisoned water they used to drug the Sunrise Warrior. It's Tennyson and his cult who have broken the rules of fair combat. They've tried to subvert a fair trial by combat and they stand condemned.'

Ferris rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. He might have been weak and vacillating but even a weak man will resist if he's given enough provocation. And Tennyson's contemptuous threats had finally gone too far.

'Can you prove this?' he asked Will. Will smiled and gripped the Genovesan by the scruff of his collar, dragging him to his feet and shoving the tumbler against his tightly closed lips.

'Easily,' he said. 'Let's see what happens when our friend here drinks it.'

The Genovesan began to thrash frantically against Will's iron grip. But Will held him fast and again thrust the tumbler to his mouth.

`Go ahead,' he said. He turned to the marshal. 'Marshal, would you pinch his nose for me so his mouth will have to open?'

The marshal obliged and the Genovesan's lips finally parted as he had to breathe. But as Will raised the tumbler to his open lips, the assassin, with a supreme effort, tore one hand free from his restraints and dashed the tumblerout of Will's hands, sending it spinning and spilling the water onto the grass.

Will released him and stood back. He spread his hands in appeal to the King.

'I think his actions speak for themselves, your majesty,' he said. But Tennyson instantly screamed his dissent.

'They prove nothing! Nothing! This is all circumstantial! There is no real proof. It's a web of lies and tricks.'

But the crowd was against him. And now, a large proportion of those who had come here with him were also turning away. Voices were raised against him, angry voices of people who were beginning to realise they had been tricked.

'There's one certain way to find out who's lying,' Will shouted, and the arena went silent. 'Let's test it in the highest court of all.'

Ferris was taken aback. The suggestion was unexpected. 'Trial by combat?' he said.

Will nodded, jerking a contemptuous thumb at the Genovesan.

'Him and me. Here and now. One arrow each, from opposite ends of the ground,' he said.

'No! I tell you it's…'Tennyson began to shout but the crowd drowned him out. They were eager for another duel and they believed in the divine, unarguable power of trial by combat as a way of finding the truth.

Ferris looked around the arena. The idea had popular support, he could see. The alternative was to spend weeks in his court arguing the toss, with no prospect of a clear-cut answer. Tennyson was glaring his hatred at him and suddenly Ferris was heartily tired of the overweight, overblown charlatan in a white robe.

`Go ahead,' he said.

The crowd roared again. And now, a good proportion of those sitting on Tennyson's side joined in the chorus of approval.

Chapter 44

The rules were simple. A marshal fetched the Genovesan's crossbow from the pavilion and returned it to him. He was allowed one quarrel from his quiver and positioned beside the southern pavilion.

Will took up a similar position at the northern end of the field, also with one arrow. The two opponents were just over one hundred metres apart. The area around each pavilion, where people had been visiting the vending stalls, emptied rapidly. They took up positions along the long sides of the arena, in front of the railing that had formerly kept spectators from straying onto the field of combat. A broad corridor was left down the middle, with the two antagonists at either end.

Sean Carrick was setting the rules of engagement.

`Neither party shall make an attempt to evade the other's shot. You will both stand fast and, on the sound of the trumpet, you may shoot in your own time. In the event that both miss, you will each be issued another arrow and we will repeat the sequence.'

He I ooked to his left and right, studying the two figures to see if there might be any sign of misunderstanding. But both Will and the Genovesan nodded their agreement.

Will was calm and collected. His breathing was easy and even. The crossbow was a fearsome weapon and it was relatively easy to achieve a degree of accuracy with it. Far easier than with the longbow. The shooter had sights, consisting of a notched V at the back and blade at the front of the crossbow. And there was no need to hold the weight of the drawstring while the bow was aimed. That was done mechanically, and the quarrel, or bolt, released by means of a trigger.

So the average person could quickly learn to become a good shot with a crossbow. That was why, years ago, the Genovesan hierarchy had selected the weapon for their forces. Because almost anybody could shoot one with reasonable success. There was no need to search for particularly talented recruits. The crossbow was an everyman's weapon.

And that was where Will believed his advantage lay. The crossbow did not require the hours and hours of practice that went into becoming a proficient shot with the longbow. You raised the bow, centred the sights on the target and pulled the trigger lever. So after some practice, it was easy for the shooter to settle for being a good shot – rather than an excellent one. And most people did settle for that.

On the other hand, the longbow was an Instinctive weapon and an archer had m practise over and over again to achieve any level of proficiency and consistency. For the Rangers, there was an almost mystic union with the bow.

A Ranger never stopped practising. 'Good' wasn't good enough. Excellence was the standard they sought. To shoot a longbow well, the archer had to be dedicated and determined. And once you shot it well, it was merely a matter of application before you became an excellent shot.

A good shot versus an expert shot. That was what it boiled down to. Had they been fighting over a range of fifty metres or less, he would have called the odds even. At a little over one hundred metres, with the resulting smaller margin for error, he felt he had the edge.

There was another factor. Genovesans were, by trade, assassins, not warriors. They were not used to a target that was shooting back at them. They were more accustomed to shooting at an unsuspecting victim from a well-hidden position. Will knew from experience that nothing could affect accuracy or the need to remain calm like the prospect of being shot oneself.

So he stood now, with a half smile on his face, confident in his own ability, staring down the field at the figure in purple facing him.

He saw the trumpeter raise his instrument and laid the single arrow on his bowstring. Then he focused totally on the dull purple shape a hundred metres away. The trumpet sound split the air and Will raised his bow, drawing back on the string as he did so.

There was no need to hurry. He saw the bow coming up in the foreground of his sighting picture, with the purple figure that was his target behind it. He didn't sight down the arrow or concentrate on any one aspect of the picture. He needed to see it all to estimate elevation, windage and release.

His rhythm was set, his breathing smooth and even. He took a breath, then, fractionally before he felt his right forefinger touch the corner of his mouth, he released half of it. It was an automatic co-ordination of the two separate actions and he wasn't aware that it had happened. But he saw the sight picture and it was good. Every element was in its correct correlation. Bow, arrow head and target all formed one complete entity.