Fugitive

  "My father was at both Crecy and Poitiers, where he shot a bow for the King." Adam Forester, now in his late thirties, leaned back on the homemade timber chair and sighed out. His face slowly stretched into a proud grin, pronounced by his new wrinkles and scars.

  "We lost, my boy, we lost. I ought to be embarassed." He leant forward and pulled his great yew bow off the table, also homemade. He stood to string the mighty stave with the hemp cord he always kept twined around the bow. "But I am not. Instead, I am proud. I am proud to have shot a bow for my King as well, after my father." He had come back from the battle at Otterburn, and was pretty damned proud of it, and so everyday he would prattle on and on about his experience of the battle. Hugh simply sat and nodded.

  "Off you go now, archery practice. I hear an old sergeant has come along to teach you pups a thing or two of melee. We can't have England's bowmen shooting like masters and then flapping their weapons about like wet cocks when the French decide to attack again." Adam smiled and said. Their King still kept the law of compulsory archery.

  "Right." Hugh's arms were still sore from shooting the day before. He slung over his arrow bag, and grabbed the archers' dagger his grandfather and father had carried and wielded with deadly proficiency. With a wave to his father and mother he snatched up his own bow and left the house.

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  Hugh walked at a decently brisk pace toward the butts, looking at his village. It was close to Lancashire, about two days away on a good horse. Two boys pissed in the well and he shouted at them to scatter. They did so with a scowl. With a nod to the local blacksmith, who made arrowheads and tools for the town, he turned on his heel and passed through the abandoned orchard.

  The abandoned orchard, his grandfather had told him