"This is your lucky day, traitor," de Glanville told him in a low, menacing voice. "Our guest desires an archery contest. Your life is the prize." The sheriff eyed him closely. "Do you understand?"

It took Will a moment to work out what the sheriff had said.

There was to be a contest for his life. He nodded. "I understand," he replied in Ffreinc.

"Good," said the sheriff. Taking Will's bound hands in his gauntleted fist, he seized the fingers of his right hand and began to squeeze.

"Just so there will be no mistake," de Glanville added. Before Will knew what was happening, the sheriff gave his fingers a sudden, vicious twist. There was a pop and crack like that of dried twigs as his finger bones snapped. "We will make certain you understand who is to win this contest."

Pain streaked up his arm and erupted in a fiery blast that stole Will's breath away. Tears instantly welled up in his eyes, distorting his vision. He sank to his knees, whimpering with agony and struggling to remain conscious.

"There," said de Glanville with a satisfied nod. "Now there will be no surprises."

The condemned man glowered up at the sheriff, mouthing a silent curse as he cradled his ruined fingers to his chest, tears streaming from his eyes.

He was jerked to his feet again and marched between two knights out onto the centre of the green. There he stood upright as best he could, shaking with the effort. He struggled to keep from weeping from the humiliation of being so easily bettered by his enemies-as much as from the physical pain itself.

While Will was trying to regain some small part of his composure, Marshal Guy of Gysburne appeared with a longbow and bag of arrows. The sight of the bow cast Will into a dismal, all-embracing despair. Here was the instrument of his salvation, now useless to him because of the sheriff 's wicked ploy. He could no more draw a bow with broken fingers than he could have walked across the sea to Ireland.

But, what was this? Guy was handing the bow to the tall, dark priest.

Forcing the pain from his mind, Will brought all his concentration to bear on what was being said. Because the marshal's instructions had to be repeated for the visiting priest, Will could just about work out what was happening. They were each to loose three arrows in turn, and the closest to the mark would be declared the winner. The priest gave a sign that he understood and accepted the terms of the contest; no one asked Will if he understood, or accepted, anything.

Then, while a hastily constructed straw man was set up a hundred paces or so down the greensward, the two contestants walked out to take their places, followed by a large, excited crowd of onlookers. Two soldiers stood at Will's elbow, watching his every move. Guy, who was supervising the contest, handed the bow to the priest, saying, "You will each use the same bow, Your Eminence. Here is the weapon."

The young priest took the offered bow and tried the string, bending the bow tentatively: back stiff, elbows awry. The action, while not entirely awkward, lacked something of the confidence of great skill. Will, even in his agony, was not slow to see it, and the gesture kindled a flicker of hope in his woeful heart.

That hope leapt up the higher when the priest turned to him and offered the bow, indicating that he should try it as well. "My thanks," muttered Will through teeth clenched against the pain in his throbbing fingers.

Although it had been some time since he had held a bow, Will found the instrument balanced well enough; but the draw, when tested with his thumb, was far too loose. Clearly, this was a toy the Ffreinc had either made themselves or found somewhere; it was not the war bow of a Welshman. Still, it might serve for a simple contest; if both of them were to use it, there could be no advantage to either party.

Will made to pass the bow back to his smiling adversary, who waved him off and, taking an arrow from Guy, handed it to the captive and then stepped back to allow him the honour of loosing first.

Sweating now, his jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth would shatter, Will tried to nock the arrow onto the string. But the injured fingers would not obey, and the arrow slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet. The priest was there in an instant to retrieve it for him. With a flourish of his hand and a smile to the sheriff and Marshal Guy, who stood looking on with unmitigated malice, the envoy indicated that he would allow the condemned man another chance to draw.

Will, with great difficulty and much fumbling, at last fitted the arrow to the string and held it there with his left hand while attempting to hook his swollen, mangled fingers into some semblance of an archer's grip. Sweating and shaking with the effort, he did not so much draw back the string as simply hold it and press the bow forward. The arrow flew from the string with little conviction and described a lacklustre curve to plant its point in the turf a good many yards short of the straw target.

The injured criminal passed the bow to the priest and bent down, arms on his knees, gasping, trying to remain conscious as the pain coursed up through his arm like a fire-spitting snake. Meanwhile, his black-robed rival took up the bow and with far more aplomb nocked the arrow to the string. Marshal Guy gave de Glanville a knowing nudge with his elbow and smiled as the visiting dignitary pulled back and loosed his first arrow. Somehow, what seemed an easy draw suddenly went wildly wrong: the missile flew not out as it should have but almost straight up, spinning sideways in a loopy spiral to land behind the onlookers on the green.

Some of the townspeople gathered around laughed. The priest, still smiling, shrugged and held out his hand for another arrow. Marshal Guy gave him another arrow with the admonition to take his time and aim. Nodding, the priest made a gesture of dismissal and handed the bow and arrow back to his opponent.

Will, his face white and beaded with sweat, took up the bow once more and strained with every nerve, the target swimming before his eyes as he strove to pinch the string between thumb and forefinger. When he could hold the string no longer, he released it and sent the arrow forward in a low arc to skid along the grass, almost reaching the foot of the target.

Full of confidence and beaming with bravado, the priest took the bow and received an arrow from Guy, who repeated his counsel to take time, draw, and aim properly. The priest made a reply, which the translator passed along, saying, "His Eminence is aware of the problem and will adjust his stance accordingly."

Taking the arrow, he placed it on the string and, gazing hard at the target, narrowed his eyes and drew the string to his cheek, holding the bow straight and strong in front of him. He released after the briefest pause, and the crowd's eyes followed the path of the arrow as it seemed to streak towards the target. But, wonder of wonders, the arrow did not arrive. A second glance confirmed that it had not, in fact, left the string at all, but there remained dangling, caught somehow, one of its feathered flights ripped off and sent halfway across the green. The arrow fell at the embarrassed priest's feet, its iron point in the ground.

More people laughed now.

"The idiot!" grumbled the sheriff. "This is no contest. Neither one of them can draw worth a fart."

"I will draw for the priest," suggested Marshal Guy. "I can do no worse than he has done."

The sheriff stared at him. "Don't be stupid. The contest has begun," he grumbled. "We cannot change now; it would not be seemly."

"Why not?" demanded the marshal. "You broke that wretch's fingers-that was not seemly. How did you ever agree to such a thing anyway?"

"He said he could draw!" replied the sheriff. He forced a sour smile and nodded at the envoy.