Chapter 19
“Here, try this,” the young prince said.
Robin took the wooden bow he held out to her. They were standing in the practice yard behind the barracks of the castle.
“It’s so short!” she exclaimed.
“It’s exactly as tall as you are,” Ian replied, indicating the height similarity between Robin and the unstrung bow she held in front of her.
“I like it,” Robin said, pausing over her words. “But it won’t be as powerful as a longbow, and I know I’ll be able to draw one soon. I’m getting stronger every day.”
“I know,” Ian said. He did not appear hurt by her blunt words about his gift. “But, this is not just a shorter bow. It’s a special curved design from Etrar. Archers there can use this kind of bow on horseback without losing the extra power from lost length.”
Robin tilted her head to the side, opening her eyes wider in an unspoken invitation for him to continue speaking.
Ian carried on, talking louder and faster. “These curves here at the end are formed into the wood, and they create extra tension on the bowstring, releasing the arrow with more force. The Etrarian soldiers swear by them. They say they are more swift and accurate.”
Robin ran her hand over the curved wood, then looked back at him. “There’s only one way to find out if that is true.”
Moments later, the two of them stood beside each other at the archer’s line in practice range behind the Iseldis castle. He always said she was his favorite archery companion. But, he had been saying that about most activities.
While they were standing next to each other, they were not back-to-back as most archers often were.
She loved that they could stand face-to-face on the shooting line.
Robin felt most comfortable if she used her right hand to hold the bow because it allowed her to aim with her left eye.
Ian had always preferred the combination of his left hand on the bow and his right eye on the target.
Because of this, when their bows were drawn toward the target, they stood a pace apart on the line, but could face each other as they practiced.
In front of her, he held his bow, not having strung it yet, as he watched her examine his gift.
Robin flexed her new curved bow, feeling out the weight of it. Her mouth opened in surprise as she drew the string back to her cheek. She gently guided the string back to its original position before glancing up at Ian. “It’s so smooth!”
Ian smiled. “I thought you might like it. Let’s see how much power it has.”
“If it works,” Robin said, “I’ll easily become a better archer than you.”
“I know,” Ian said, his voice sincere. “Which is why I had to get it for you.”
Robin woke to the sound of a loud sneeze.
Rolling over on the crunchy straw, she listened to the donkey beneath her huff and wheeze his way into another loud snort.
After giving her bedroom away, Robin had chosen the privacy and comfort of the small loft in the far stable that housed Humphrey, two other donkeys, and three of the horses that were too old to ride.
While the odor was less than ideal, she far preferred the mostly quiet company of the older animals to joining the others on the floor of the great hall or in a tent around one of the fires.
Fully awake, she stretched her sore muscles and dropped over the ledge of the loft to the packed ground below.
“Good morn,” she called cheerfully to Humphrey.
The donkey was still struggling to expel the moisture from his nose, so she gave him a wide berth as she left the stable.
Willa’s morning porridge would not be ready until the sun fully rose, so she turned away from the manor house and made her way to the small archery field on the side of the clearing instead.
All of her bandits—herself included—spent time daily improving their individual combat skills. She required each of them to perfect their skill with a bow, as they always aimed to keep their combat as long distance as possible for the safety of everyone involved.
So it was no surprise that Lane, Ulli, Jette, and Rigelt were already standing in a small circle, stringing their bows and stretching out their shoulders.
It was a surprise, however, to see Ian standing in that circle.
Ulli, the quietest man she had ever met, was holding out a fistful of arrows to the prince.
Robin was too far away to hear what he was saying but, judging by the way Ian had reached out to examine the fletching on the arrows, Ulli was probably talking about his secret technique for binding feathers to the arrow shaft.
By the time she had approached the group, they were lining up to face the distant hay-filled targets.
Feeling mildly peeved but unsure why, Robin took her place at the end of the line, blaming her irritation on the emptiness in her stomach.
Ian stood beside her, facing her, his bow drawn. His eyes flicked to her for a second, noting her approach, but they immediately returned to the target, his concentration holding steady until he safely released the arrow.
It landed near the center of the painted circle. A good shot.
Lowering his bow, he sent her a smile. “Good morn,” he said.
She nodded in response, leaning down to twist her bow between her ankles as she slid the string into its notch.
“I see you still prefer the curved style of bow,” Ian said. “Although this is not the one I gave you.”
“The Etrarian warriors were right,” Robin replied. It was not until she had nocked an arrow to her bowstring that she realized she was referring to a conversation they’d had ten years prior. He would likely have no idea what she was talking about.
“So you have found it to be more swift and accurate?” Ian asked, picking up her reference immediately.
“Yes,” Robin replied. She held up her bow between them, twisting it to show him the carved wooden handle. “I worked with a bowyer to order a new one the last time I was in Etrar. It is perfectly sized to the length and strength of my arm.”
“It is truly beautiful,” Ian said. His gaze flickered from the bow to her face. “Let us see it in action.”
Robin raised her eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”
Ian gestured toward the target.
Robin repositioned the arrow and lifted the bow.
Pulling back the bowstring against her left cheek, she rested the knuckle of her thumb against her cheek bone.
She slowly exhaled, focusing on the painted target far across the field.
She loved the moment when the bowstring was taut against her fingers.
Holding an instrument in its most dangerous and powerful state forced her to forget everything else around her and keep her mind locked on her target.
When her breath was gone, she released the arrow.
It landed with a satisfying thud, exactly where she had intended it to go.
Inhaling with pride as she lowered her bow, she looked at Ian.
“I wish I could tell you that your aim has improved,” he said, looking off to the distant target.
Robin stiffened for a moment at the insult; she had just made the perfect shot into the very center of the center ring. Then she saw the side of his mouth curve up into a smile. He was jesting. “Unfortunately,” she retorted, “you cannot improve that which is already perfect.”
“That is true,” Ian replied, looking back at her. “I hope you noticed that I have, in fact, improved.”
Robin looked at his previous shot, just off to the side of the center. “Not bad,” she said. “I will let you take another shot, to see who the true victor is.”
Ian nocked another arrow to his bowstring. “I said I have improved, not that I could best you.”
A shrill whistle sounded from the manor.
Robin quickly turned to look at the house in the far distance, as had every other bandit on the archery line. “That was Nele,” Robin said, answering the unspoken question on Ian’s face.
The whistle was the signal for urgency, not danger, but Robin could not help breaking into a light run as she made her way back to the house, her bow still in hand.
Rounding the corner of the house, she was relieved to see a large, canvas-covered cart sitting on the road in front of the house.
Nele stood near the front of the cart, chatting with the driver who was unyoking two mules from the front of it.
“Lady Robin,” the driver said. He was young, much younger than Robin, but the nervous expression on his face made him appear much older. “I am sorry for the delay—I had to wait out traveling groups of Chendas soldiers several times. They seem to be growing in number on every road.”
The shipment of food from Allys was now six days late. Reeve Alrud had continued sending a messenger each day to inquire after it. Robin had done her best not to send them home empty-handed, but the Lockwood larder could not feed all of Berwell.
“I am just glad to see you here and safe,” Robin replied, walking to the back of the wagon. “You have done well. Take yourself inside for a bowl of stew. We can care for the mules.”
Jette had already stepped forward, taking over for the young driver.
Ian, Ulli, Lane, and Rigelt joined her at the back of the wagon.
Climbing up onto the back end of it, Robin pulled back the canvas covering to reveal several large woven rugs, seemingly piled high. But the sharp smell of brined vegetables, preserved fruits, and dusty dried beans told her that the true cargo of this cart was something else.
Ulli reached over the side of the cart and started to roll back one of the rugs. Below it, in the bottom of the wagon, sat stacks of sealed barrels and crates. Preserved food that traveled well and had been grown in Allys. The neighboring kingdom had not been hit quite as badly by the storms.
Lane grabbed another one of the heavy rugs, pulling it off of the real cargo. “Imagine how much more food we could fit in here if we did not have to disguise it under a shipment of textiles.”
“Some is better than what most of the villagers have,” Robin said. She grabbed a crate and hefted it over the side of the wagon, glad that her consistent archery and constant work allowed her to carry heavy burdens.
Ian reached up to take it from her.
Robin let him have it, grabbing another for herself before she jumped out of the cart and led the way into the manor.
Inside the great hall, Ilida was already clearing space on one of the tables. “How much?” she asked before Robin had even set down the first crate.
“I do not know yet,” Robin said. “Two weeks. Maybe three.”
Ian set down his crate and went back out.
“Will the next one be delayed?” Ilida asked, opening the crate to peer at its contents.
“He did not say,” Robin answered.
Ilida picked up a piece of parchment and started marking down the contents of the crate.
By the time Robin was back outside, Ian stood next to the cart lifting a barrel over the side as if it weighed nothing. With his disheveled hair and simple, stained clothing, he looked far more like a bandit than a prince.
She liked that.
He walked past her, sending her a smile as he carried a barrel into the house.
She also liked the way he seemed to quietly step in and help, no matter the task. Perhaps that was why Ilida and Ulli had already started to trust him.
“He smiles different here,” Lane said, stopping next to her with a crate in his arms.
“What do you mean?” Robin asked, hiding her face as she moved to the back of the wagon to grab another crate herself.
“It’s just not the same as his prince smile,” Lane said.
“He’s still a prince here,” Robin said.
But Lane was already on the move, carrying his crate toward the manor.
Robin grabbed a crate for herself, but before she could carry it inside, Ilida strode out of the front door, her stacked parchments nestled in one arm. “Robin,” she said loudly as she approached. “This is even less than usual.”
“We have not finished bringing it in yet,” Robin replied, holding the heavy crate in front of her.
“The crates are less full,” Ilida retorted. “It will not add up to the same amount.” She tapped her parchments, coming to a stop at the side of the cart. She stood on her toes to peer over the side, her lips moving as she counted its contents. “It is not enough for the full circuit,” she confirmed.
Realizing that this would not be a quick conversation, Robin rested one end of her crate against the side of the wagon.
“We have to limit how much we hand out,” Ilida said. “It is the only way to ensure that the last two villages get enough.”
Ian reappeared from the manor house, moving around Robin to grab a barrel.
“We have discussed this,” Robin said. “I will not tell someone they cannot take enough to feed their family.”
“They are not taking it to feed their family,” Ilida said, her voice firm. “Someone is hoarding it.”
“You do not know that,” Robin said. “Everyone is struggling. They all know that this has to stretch as far as possible, and we have to trust that. Remember the woman with the tiny pickled eggs?”
“It was right of you to eat them,” Ilida said, her face softening. “It was the only thing she had to give back to you. And most people are like her, truly. But not all.”
Robin watched Ian disappear into the manor house over Ilida’s shoulder, wishing she could join him instead of having this conversation again.