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Hesitantly, the boy offered him his arrow. Rhys took it. A quick glance told him all he needed to know.
“Look,” he said, taking the arrow and spinning it on his palm. “What do you see?”
“It . . . it wobbles, sir.”
“It does indeed. And why do you think that might be?”
“Mayhap because ’tis old,” Gethin said ruefully.
“That may play a part,” Rhys admitted. “But ’tis something more than that.” He held the arrow so the boy could look down the shaft.
“’Tis bent,” Gethin said in amazement.
Rhys nodded. “And the finest archer in Wales would be hard-pressed to hit a moving rabbit with a bent arrow.” He gave his chin a thoughtful stroke. “It seems to me that seeing as you shot first and I had the unfair advantage of a straight arrow, by all rights, the rabbit should go to you.”
Gethin’s narrow face lit up. “Do you really think so?”
“I do.”
Gethin ran back to the bush and returned with a small sack. “Could we put it in here? I’ll take it to my mam. She was all sad yesterday, but this will cheer her no end.”
Rhys withdrew his arrow from the rabbit and placed the animal inside Gethin’s sack. After cleaning off the arrowhead on a dock leaf, he handed the arrow to the boy.
“You’d best take this as well,” he said. “That way our next competition can be a fair one.”
With wide eyes, Gethin accepted the arrow. “Thank you, sir. I shall practice every chance I get.”
Rhys smiled. “And I shall do the same.”
Gathering his bow and bent arrow in one hand and the sack and new arrow in the other, Gethin managed a clumsy bow. Then with a joyful wave, he disappeared through the trees.
Seconds later, one of Gwilym’s distinctive birdcalls sounded. Rhys slid his bow over his shoulder and headed back toward the sycamore tree. Gwilym was waiting for him, holding two rabbits on a stick. He raised his eyebrows as Rhys approached empty-handed.
“Not one? Have your rabbit-hunting skills deserted you?”
“So it would seem,” Rhys said, starting back through the underbrush without further explanation. “Come. We’d best take your catch to Margaret right away.”
Gwilym gave him a questioning look, but Rhys ignored it and kept walking.
“As you wish,” Gwilym said with a shrug. “But I will not be held to blame if henceforth I am her favorite brother-in-law.”
“It may take more than two rabbits to win that prize.”
“You are forgetting about my natural charm,” Gwilym said, catching up with him and flashing him a grin.
Rhys stifled a groan and rolled his eyes. He would endure a few minutes of Gwilym’s overconfidence if it distracted him from trying for additional game. The more rabbits left in the woods for Gethin and the other boys in the village, the better.
Chapter 6
Rhys sat astride Castan and watched the clouds scud across the sky. If there was one thing a man could depend upon in North Wales, it was the unpredictability of the weather. Since returning to Penmynydd, he’d experienced torrential rain, followed by days of warm sunshine. Now, barely a week since his arrival on Anglesey, blustery wind was blowing off the North Sea, and the temperatures were dropping again.
He’d ridden the eight miles to Newborough, hoping to make use of the long, open stretch of sandy beach just beyond the small community to practice using his bow while riding. But over the last half hour, the weather had steadily worsened, and to shoot an arrow against wind so strong would be pure foolishness.
Tucking the flapping edges of his cloak beneath one arm, Rhys leaned forward to pat Castan’s neck.
“Our planned target practice may have come to naught, Castan, but riding into this wind may prove test enough.”
Castan tossed his head in agreement, and with one more glance at the sky, Rhys urged his mount out from the protection of the forested area that edged the beach and guided him between the nearest sand dunes. Marram grass waved from atop the heaping mounds, but the hardy plants could not fully prevent the grains of sand from swirling airborne.
