The Messenger of the Black Prince

by Thomas A. H. Mawhinney

The men dismounted as they did before. They searched every speck of ground from the edge of the road far back to the ridge of the hill. They returned once again disappointed with doubt and anxiety impressed on their faces.

From then on we proceeded with utmost caution. The eyes of the men roved continually over the sides of the road. The archers sat with their bows slung across their saddles. Now and then, even when there was no sign of danger, a few of them dismounted and scoured among the rocks and rugged ground to either side of us.

For a quarter of an hour we went along peacefully enough. Then a white streak cut the air. The arrow did not come straight, but curved upwards in a long smooth arch. It struck point downward in the middle of the road where it trembled a little and then remained perfectly still.

Every man in that company reined in his horse. The archers raised their bows. They searched with their eyes every nook in the rocks where a man could have hidden. Not a sound came to us. Not a motion did we see. As far as appearances went the missile might have dropped from the sky.

One of the men rode on ahead and slid from his horse. He stooped to pick up the arrow. As his hand was about to touch the shaft, another arrow darted through the air like a flash of light. It cut the first in two, splitting it as cleanly as you would with a sharp knife. The man jumped back with his face the color of chalk and got once more upon his horse.

Our enemies were by this time thoroughly alarmed. There was no dismounting to hunt among the rocks. Fear was in every face and their nerves were keyed up as though they had been lashed with whips. A bird flying across the road or a dry leaf blown by the breeze would have started every one of them in his saddle.

Next we came to a clump of short stubby trees. Before he would risk passing it, the captain grouped his men together. He sent five of them to examine every tree, every bush and rock as far back from the road as they could venture. They returned. There was not a twig or branch which had escaped their eyes. A human soul was nowhere to be seen.

We started. The horses had scarcely taken ten steps when a long screeching laugh echoed to us through the trees. The captain and the rest of them drew in their reins. In the next second an arrow caught him in the chest and struck with terrific force against his coat of mail. It clicked and dropped to the ground but the power behind it jolted him so hard that it was within an ace of driving him from his saddle.

But that shot was enough. If their nerves were on edge before, they were broken now. The captain sank his spurs into his horse’s flanks. With a shout to save themselves he called to his men to follow. He dashed on ahead. A tug on the rope that bound my waist almost cut me in two. I was jerked forward, hobbling on my bruised foot, with a snap. I uttered a groan and tried to break into a run, with the sweat streaming down my face and my breath coming in painful gasps.

Then we suddenly stopped. My eyes were looking ahead. I saw an arrow dart in the direction of the captain. It cut one of the reins as cleanly as though it were of straw. The horse stumbled and the captain lost his hold. With the end of the rein in his hand he grasped into the air, spun around to the side and toppled heavily to the ground.