Post by Nicholas Miller on Sept 2, 2014 20:12:05 GMT -5
Outside of the castle, there was a long a flat pasture. On this beautiful, windless day it was an idyllic place, covered with rich green grass that stood perfectly still in the absence of any breeze. But this was no meadow meant for lovers to eat beneath the open sky, nor was it to let cattle, horses, sheep or goats go free. For at one end stood rows of scarecrows geared in old armour and at the end, men in mail and leather stood, a long yew stave in one hand and their eyes turned towards the other end.
There was no noise beyond a single partridge taking flight, the frenetic drumbeat of its wings shattering the silence and acting as the signal for man-made noises to be heard.
"Nock! Draw! Loose! Nock! Draw! Loose! Nock! Draw! Loose!"
The words were being yelled out by a greying man who carried an unstrung bow as he stood at the end of the group of four score archers. His powerful, gravelly voice had held a cadence the men before him followed without thinking, without effort. And even after he stopped calling the commands, the archers kept on letting go shaft after shaft after shaft at the punishing rhythm of twelve a minute.
And so they did for six minutes straight, fingers bearing calluses like boiled leather hauling back a hempen cord soaked in hoof glue and releasing it to let fly a yard-long ash shaft bearing goose feathers at one end and a murderous bodkin at the other. Their muscles, developed by years of drawing these bows, did so seventy-two times more, until their arrow bags were empty.
And behind the line, Sir Gilbert had been watching his archers shoot, and he was pleased. And even more so as he watched the shafts fly and find their targets two hundred and fifty yards away far more often than they thumped into the grass. Granted, he had seen arrows that had flown wide when a nock shattered or crooked because he suspected the shaft was warped, but his men were good. "All right lads! Take a drink, refill your bags. Pages, run on down and gather me those arrows!"
Sir Gilbert liked having good men under his command. And he would let them rest for a few moments while a crew of young boys were taking a cart and wicker baskets downrange to recover those precious shafts and would start to re-bind them into sheaves of twenty-four.
Having been dismissed, Nicholas Miller was one of the first to unstring his bow and pull off his helmet. Since dawn, he had been training with the rest of his band of archers. First it had been running, then wrestling, then a load march that led them six miles away and then back to this training field. And now, then had just loosed a basic load of arrows, and more were being delivered. But knowing his commander, Nick knew there would be more to come today. And before they would shoot again, the Sir was bound to have some other plans first.
After all, those pages would be a while gathering up all those arrows and binding them back up, and the wagon carrying even more arrows was even further out.
As such, Nicholas simply joined his fellow archers by the water barrel and drank deep from one of the dippers.
There was no noise beyond a single partridge taking flight, the frenetic drumbeat of its wings shattering the silence and acting as the signal for man-made noises to be heard.
"Nock! Draw! Loose! Nock! Draw! Loose! Nock! Draw! Loose!"
The words were being yelled out by a greying man who carried an unstrung bow as he stood at the end of the group of four score archers. His powerful, gravelly voice had held a cadence the men before him followed without thinking, without effort. And even after he stopped calling the commands, the archers kept on letting go shaft after shaft after shaft at the punishing rhythm of twelve a minute.
And so they did for six minutes straight, fingers bearing calluses like boiled leather hauling back a hempen cord soaked in hoof glue and releasing it to let fly a yard-long ash shaft bearing goose feathers at one end and a murderous bodkin at the other. Their muscles, developed by years of drawing these bows, did so seventy-two times more, until their arrow bags were empty.
And behind the line, Sir Gilbert had been watching his archers shoot, and he was pleased. And even more so as he watched the shafts fly and find their targets two hundred and fifty yards away far more often than they thumped into the grass. Granted, he had seen arrows that had flown wide when a nock shattered or crooked because he suspected the shaft was warped, but his men were good. "All right lads! Take a drink, refill your bags. Pages, run on down and gather me those arrows!"
Sir Gilbert liked having good men under his command. And he would let them rest for a few moments while a crew of young boys were taking a cart and wicker baskets downrange to recover those precious shafts and would start to re-bind them into sheaves of twenty-four.
Having been dismissed, Nicholas Miller was one of the first to unstring his bow and pull off his helmet. Since dawn, he had been training with the rest of his band of archers. First it had been running, then wrestling, then a load march that led them six miles away and then back to this training field. And now, then had just loosed a basic load of arrows, and more were being delivered. But knowing his commander, Nick knew there would be more to come today. And before they would shoot again, the Sir was bound to have some other plans first.
After all, those pages would be a while gathering up all those arrows and binding them back up, and the wagon carrying even more arrows was even further out.
As such, Nicholas simply joined his fellow archers by the water barrel and drank deep from one of the dippers.