He turned and looked, wondering what might be considered a good target. ‘That shield in the far corner. How close can you get to the centre?’

‘Ah. Now that is a good test.’ She narrowed her eyes, murmuring to herself. ‘I’ll have to allow for the wind coming from the left once the arrow flies beyond the shelter afforded by the longhouse …’

‘Too hard? I can pick something else.’

But she wasn’t listening to him. She gave a little nod to herself, then swiftly nocked another arrow on the bowstring. She was a lesson in concentration as she aimed, her breathing steady and controlled. It seemed to him that she had to miss, aiming as far away from the target as she was. He watched in fascination as she loosed the arrow into the air. It flew true for a while, then gravity and the wind acted on it and swung it down and round towards its target. It hit the edge of the shield, where it shivered for a second before becoming still.

Lann went to clap his hands, but Astrid swore, then swiftly pulled another arrow from her back, nocked it and took aim.

The second arrow hit the shield almost dead centre, and Astrid turned and grinned at him. ‘I allowed too much for the wind on the first shot,’ she said. ‘Bit of a stupid error, really.’

‘You hit it,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes – but it wasn’t the shot I’d pictured in my head.’

‘Is that how you do it? Picture it in your head?’

She frowned, as if trying to figure out how she did do it. ‘Yes. I imagine the arrow drop and the effect of the wind and the distance to the target, and I see it happening before I release. That, and hundreds of hours of practice, of course.’

‘It’s very impressive.’

‘I’ll teach you.’

Lann shook his head and nodded down at the wooden sword in his hand. ‘I’m having enough problems with this. Let’s just try and get that right, shall we? But not today,’ he added hastily. ‘I’m a walking bruise right now, and I don’t think I could handle any more pain being inflicted. If it’s all the same with you …’ He thought she might insist, but instead she gave a nod.

‘Hungry?’ she asked.

‘Starving.’

Lunch consisted of a stew, dried meats, great hunks of fresh bread, and cheeses that tasted a whole lot better than they smelt. They sat together at a small table in the kitchens behind the longhouse. The place was run by a surly old man who’d lost an arm and an eye in battle ten years earlier.

‘You lost your sight, didn’t you? What was it like?’ she asked between mouthfuls of stew.