The hours passed unmarked by any clock. As day sank into night, Mair lit the tallow candles; then she and Merry picked up their knives and started to peel and chop a basket full of vegetables to make a stew.

Merry’s thoughts went to her mother and father. What were they doing now? What suffering were they going through, with her missing?

Merry sheathed her knife as the vegetables bubbled in their pot over the fire. As darkness fell, she and Mair sat down to their vegetable stew. Merry wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat.

Outside, the spring winds were screaming again, masking the sounds of approach.

The knock at the door made them jump. They exchanged a quick, terrified look.

Mair lifted her finger to her lips, nodded at her side room. Soundlessly, Merry eased back her stool, picked up her plate, spoon and tankard, slid behind the curtain. She unsheathed her knife and waited.

The old lady went to the door. ‘Who goes there?’ she called out.

‘Ivan Evans,’ came the reply.

Merry hid behind the thin curtain, knife poised, heart pounding. Who was Ivan Evans? A bounty hunter? A friend?

Mair called out, ‘Just a moment.’

Bolts slid back, cold blew in as she opened the door. A reek of blood filled the air.

‘I’ve something for you,’ said a low male voice. Then there was a chuckle. ‘Two somethings. A nice bit of lamb, slaughtered just an hour ago.’ The man paused and his voice lilted up questioningly. ‘And a war bow for you. Well, for someone who stands five feet seven, I think you said. Most specific you were, according to Farmer Pryce, who I saw coming home from market. I said why is Mair Morgan after a war bow and he said don’t ask, just get. So here it is. Been in my family since before my grandfather’s time. Bit of a history . . . Bit of a draw . . . but any man worth his salt should be able to manage it, and if he can’t, he isn’t a man.’

Merry pulled a face but she was thrilled. She had a bow!

‘Here’s an arrow bag too,’ the man was saying. ‘Twelve flight arrows, with the goose fletchings trimmed right low. The best. I filed them down, took off as much weight as I could. You asked for long distance. These’ll do it.’

‘Thank you, Farmer Evans. I am much obliged.’

‘I can’t help wondering, though, who it might be for. See, I heard something today . . .’ The man’s voice tailed off.

‘What did you hear?’ asked Mair.

‘I heard from my brother, you know him, he’s footman to the earl, that tonight at the banquet the king will declare a tourney for two days hence. And he will call upon the Owens to honour their pledge. He will call on them to send forth a longbowman.’

Behind the curtain, Merry gripped her knife, body rigid with anticipation and fear. So the countdown had begun.

‘We will see,’ Mair replied crisply. ‘I thank you again, Farmer Evans, and must bid you goodnight.’

Merry listened to their mutual farewells, then, when she heard the door click open, then shut firmly, with the bolts drawn home, she slipped out from behind the curtain.

She glanced at Mair, took the bow the healer held out to her. She felt that familiar surge of power as she held it in her hands.

She stood it next to her. Just slightly longer than she was tall. The perfect length . . . She weighed it in her hands. Only a fractional lack of balance could mean that an arrow loosed over a distance of just fifty yards would either hit the gold or miss by inches. She prayed this bow would shoot true.

She put it down, picked up the arrow bag. She knew that archers in this time did not usually carry quivers. The open top meant that rain could get in. Wet feathers made arrows fly crooked. And in the rough and tumble of battle, arrows could fall out of an open quiver. Nothing would fall from this arrow bag. Made from linen, it was secured with a lace fastening that bound the top closed. It felt resinous to the touch, as if waterproofed with wax. Inside there was a fine wooden frame to space the arrows and widen the bag so that the feathers would not be crushed.

Merry took out a selection of arrows, examined them, balancing them on her outstretched fingers. They were light. Wonderfully light. They’d really fly. She pressed her finger to the steel tip. But they could kill too.

Inside the bag were two coiled strings. But Merry wasn’t going to use those. She selected her own string from her backpack. Flemish inlaid and fourteen strands, the best the twenty-first century could provide. It would put the bow under huge strain, but it was her only hope for making the distance.

She unbolted the door and walked out into the night. She stood a few paces from the cottage. Mair followed her, holding out a candle, lighting Merry’s silent ritual.

First, using her knee to help bend the stave, she strung her bow.

Then she measured the distance from the handle to the string with her right fist.

She heard her father’s voice in her head. Looks about right. Not too highly strung, cariad . . .

Now to test the draw. She flexed her legs, bent over again and in the familiar, fluid movement started to straighten up, pulling back the bow at the same time. Her muscles strained and shook. She called up all her strength. Fifty-five pounds or so, she guessed. Five pounds heavier than she was used to, but she could do it. She had to do it. She pulled it back to its full draw, right to her ear and she held it there, muscles burning.

It seemed to her like the wood was singing, or screaming maybe. She released it slowly, then unstrung it.

She turned to Mair, to the candle bright in the darkness.

‘Now all I need is a target.’