She has answered so quickly, without hesitation, that it takes him by surprise. He tips his head, appears for a moment to search for his words.

Then he says, “That is for you to find out. We shall test your strength. See if you can really break a man’s bones with your bare hands.” He leans against the wall, laughing at whatever picture he has conjured in his mind (while he laughs, she stares and yawns loudly). When he has finished, he adds, his expression sneering, “But if you fail, I shall have you whipped in public before all of my men. And the boy, too.”

He doesn’t give her time to answer. “Follow me,” he says and without ceremony leads her outside to where the archers practice. She realizes he has thought up this plan ahead of time. There is a space, and a single bow is already prepared: strung with a bow string of hemp, the yew oiled.

The draw weight of the string is a hundred pounds, maybe a little more, he tells her. This bow, a longbow, was taken from the hand of an English archer, who is dead. In that place, he goes on, even peasants can shoot. Their kings say all men who are of good health should take up the bow and practice, including on days of rest. So, this is what I propose: If an English peasant can wield this, why not you?

A crowd has gathered—a smattering of pages and squires who have received advance notice of this spectacle. She recognizes their faces as they nudge each other and laugh. “A giantess,” she hears them say. “And probably as stupid as one.”

“That is where you must shoot the arrow,” Sir Robert announces, and he points at a small target, a light-colored speck, in the far-off distance. He speaks as if he is asking her to carry a dish across the room. Just that table, there, he might have said. “We will be patient and give you a little time.”

“What about you?” she asks. She keeps her gaze fixed on the target. “Why don’t you shoot first to show me how it is done?”

“Ah, not so sure of ourselves now, are we? Well, I shall not be unkind, not to a lady. I will call our best archer to aid you, and we can have a little contest. He is not French, but the bow was his plaything in childhood. And as he grew, the bow grew with him, until he became a master of it.”

Sir Robert turns, glances over his shoulder at one standing in a line not far behind him, and nods.

From the crowd, a man strides forward and takes up the bow.

She watches him: the posture, the positioning of the legs, the angle at which he shoots, and the momentary strain that crosses his face as his fingers draw the tight string back.