Page 48 of Here in Your Arms
“She’ll nae have the strength to draw the bow,” predicted a kid about her age, with lank brown hair and matching brown eyes.
It was her own curiosity and not any desire to prove him wrong that had Rose stepping forward, accepting the longbow. It was heavier than she expected, the polished yew cool and smooth against her palms. She turned it carefully, studying the graceful curve of the wood, the subtle taper from grip to limb. The string, tightly wound and slightly waxy beneath her fingertips, stretched taut with rigid, finely tuned tension. Every detail bore the mark of craftsmanship, from the elegant shaping of the nocks to the slight notches carved into the grip, worn smooth by countless hands. It was beautiful, in a severe and practical sort of way, and so much better than merely reading about it, or studying later-made diagrams, of which there were few.
“Ye’ll nae find better north of the Tay,” Gregor said, his voice a little less teasing now. “Made by Ewan MacRae, every one of them. Cares for each like a bairn.”
Rose nodded absently, still caught in quiet wonder. At times, it still astonished her, and she had to consciously remind herself that she was seeing, hearing, and now touching things over seven hundred years old. Objects no one from her world—not even the most veteran historians or professors, unless granted rare access—could ever hope to handle firsthand.
“But ye canna draw on it,” another young soldier repeated. “Too wee and weak, ye are.”
Having plucked the taut string but once, she wasn’t sure she could either. “Maybe not, but I’d like to try,” she said, looking at Gregor for permission.
At his silent nod, Rose stood as she’d been taught in PE class back in Sauk Prairie High, placing her feet on either side of an imaginary shooting line, her stance as wide as her hips. She began to lift the bow.
One of the MacRae soldiers corrected her almost immediately, prompting her to lower the bow and listen.
“Too narrow, lass,” he said. “Nae stability in that.”
“Aye, too narrow and ye’ll tend to lean away from the target,” said another helpfully.
Rose adjusted her feet, putting more space between them.
Almost instantly, several of the watching men shook their heads.
“Too wide now,” said one, with a mop of sandy brown hair.
“Ye’ll feel too much tension in yer shanks,” explained Gregor.
Rose adjusted her stance again and looked up to gauge their response. Several nods now greeted her as she stood with her feet almost exactly shoulder width apart.
She lifted the bow, raising her back arm to match the front, angling her chin slightly upward as she recalled her old PE teacher, Mrs. Gregoire, used to say it should look as though she were peering down her nose at the bow.
A low murmur—“Aye, that’s it”—came from somewhere behind the line, followed by a few other encouraging sounds. It seemed she’d gotten the stance right, at least.
But they hadn’t been wrong about the strength it took to draw the string. Rose gritted her teeth, arms quivering slightly as she fought to pull it back—and that was without an arrow, without even having to worry yet about balancing that narrow sliver of wood between her fingers.
“Nae, lass,” someone called mildly.
Relieved, Rose let the string go, lowering the bow to her side.
“Dinna pull it slow,” said a young man as he stepped forward, bow in hand. “Power comes with the draw—smooth and swift,” he explained, lifting his own and demonstrating the motion deftly.
She tried again, hooking the string with her index and middle fingers, this time aiming for a quick, fluid draw rather than obsessing over perfect form. The taut string bit into the bend of her knuckle, and she grimaced, shifting her forefinger in an attempt to adjust—but the small movement cost her. Her grip slipped entirely, and the string snapped forward with a sharp twang, the sudden release vibrating through the bow.
Even as she knew it was coming, the suddenness of the motion caused her to jerk and stutter, wincing a bit as if she expected to be pinched by the string.
A bit of laughter followed this, none of which sounded particularly mean-spirited, so that Rose grinned along with them, shrugging a bit sheepishly.
The young man who’d directed her to pull the string smoothly and swiftly stepped up behind her, still grinning, positioning his hands over hers. His chest brushed lightly against her shoulder as he encouraged her to lift the bow more fluidly. “Aye, like that, lass,” he said as he helped her pull backthe string, more easily now with his fingers attached to the string as well. “Steady now.”
Rose barely had time to rejoice in this small success before a sharp, commanding voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip.
“Bluidy hell, Niall. Take yer hands off her.”
Chapter Eleven
The entire training field went silent.
Rose’s heart leapt into her throat before she even turned, recognizing that very angry voice.
