VIII

servants don’t tell you.
    I follow my mother as she makes her way back to shoot again. “Has there been a battle yet?” I say.
    She takes up her stance, replying over her shoulder, “Lord Daubeney’s sent your father’s best spearmen forward to attack the rebels. There’s been some fighting at Gill Down.”
    “Is Father fighting?”
    My mother’s movements are unhurried, smooth. She pulls an arrow from her quiver, nocks it, draws and shoots. All in three seconds, or four.
    Then she says, “Not yet, I think. He’s testing the rebels. To see if they will hold their ground.”
    “And will they?”
    She shoots again, aiming and releasing two arrows in quick succession, then lowers her bow and turns to look at me.
    “We must wait for more news, sweetheart. I’ve told you all I know.” She hands her bow to her lady-servant. “Now, let me see you shoot.”
    Behind me, Compton is waiting with my longbow and a selection of blunt-tipped practice arrows. I take the bow, tuck three arrows into my belt, and walk forward to take up my stance.
    My mother shoots to hit the mark, but I’m still learning to keep a length. This means aiming the arrow correctly over different distances so that it will reach the target and not fall short. You can’t learn to hit a mark until you know how to keep a length.
    Today, here, it’s a tricky task: the sight line lies between the trees of the orchard, which aren’t spaced regularly, and the distance is difficult to judge.
    “Don’t forget to check the wind.”
    “Oh yes.” I pull up some grass and toss it into the air. It drifts gently sideways as it falls; the wind’s coming from the south, off the river. But it’s not strong.
    I take the first arrow. With my arms held low, I rest it on the knuckle of my bow hand, and position the nock – the groove at the feather-end of the shaft – against the string.
    Then, as I lift the bow into position, I draw the string back – right back until the thumb of my drawing hand skims my ear.
    This is where you need the strength. The more powerful the bow, the harder it is to draw. My father’s bows have a drawing weight of over a hundred pounds.
    I hold – no longer than the count of three – and loose the arrow, trying to open my fingers out cleanly and quickly, without jerking. If you don’t get your fingers smartly out of the way of the string, you know about it; it’s a mistake you don’t make twice.
    “You held that one a fraction too long,” says my mother, shading her eyes to see where my arrow has hit: I’ve made it to the straw target, but low down, and over to the left. “And, look – as you loose the arrow, think of squeezing your shoulder blades together a little and pressing forward with your bow arm.” She lifts her arms to demonstrate.
    “I was. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
    My mother narrows her eyes at me and smiles. I take another arrow from my quiver; nock, draw, hold and loose again. This one scrapes a tree and scuds into the grass well short of the target. I growl in frustration.
    “Mama…” I say, as I pull out my third arrow.
    “Mm?”
    “How did your brothers die?”
    I’m looking down at my bow, but I can sense that she’s suddenly very still. She says quietly, “Why do you want to know?”
    “I mean, was it some disease or…” I hesitate, wondering if I’m brave enough to say what I’m thinking. “Or was it a knife, or a gun, or what? An arrow?”
    “Who have you been speaking to, Hal?”
    “No one.” I raise my bow; hold only a moment; and release. It’s a better shot. “But were they murdered? And did it happen here, at the Tower?”
    My mother doesn’t answer. I’m still not looking at her. I add, “You said this was a safe place.” Then I set off, walking towards the other end of the orchard to retrieve my arrows.
    After a moment I hear a swishing; she catches up with me, and walks alongside. Her skirts are dragging against the long grass – she grabs a handful of them, and puts her other arm round my shoulders. “Hal. Yes, they were murdered. Yes, it happened here. But it was before you were born, sweetheart. During the old wars. It was… it was a different world back then. I don’t think you can imagine just how different.”
    We’ve reached the target. My mother’s three arrows are all on the black circle; my two are more spread out, one way above it, the other low. I’ve already picked up the one that fell in the grass. Now, pulling the other