Before the word had died, the second arrow rested beside it; and even as it struck, the string twanged again and the third joined the others in the blanc.

“My dear Countess,” said Richard, “I did not know we entertained another Monarch.  Behold the Queen of Archery!  Hail and welcome to our Kingdom and our Court! . . .  Gentlemen, have you no knee for Her Majesty?”

Beatrix blushed and curtsied in return, then quickly withdrew to the side of the Queen.

“Methinks, my lords,” Richard said, “you have got a hard score to best.  However, it is but two hundred yards to your target; so let it be the notch to the string, the string to the ear, and the shaft in the white clout yonder.”

As the King had said, the distance was short for rovers.  In all regular contests the mark was never under two hundred and twenty paces, and in many districts it was nearer four hundred.  Nevertheless, to strike an object, even at two hundred, that seemed no larger than one’s hand is no easy task; and yet, as one after another took his turn, the clout was pierced repeatedly; once by some, and twice by others; but only the Duke of Buckingham and Sir Aymer de Lacy struck it thrice.  It chanced, however, that one of the latter’s arrows landed directly in the center, on the pin that held the cloth, and this gave him the prize.

“For one who is half a Frenchman, Sir Aymer, you handle a long bow most amazing well,” the King remarked. . .  “Pardieu! what say you to a match between the victors?”

A murmur of approval greeted the suggestion.

“May it please you, my liege,” said De Lacy, “permit me now to yield.  I am no match for the Queen of Archery.”

“We will not excuse you . . . nor, I fancy, will the Countess,” turning toward her.

“If Sir Aymer de Lacy will engage to shoot his best and show no favor, I shall not refuse the trial,” she replied, coming forward.

“By St. Paul!” Richard exclaimed.  “I will answer for that . . . here is the prize,” and deftly plucking the lace kerchief from her hand he passed it to a page.  “Substitute this for the clout in the far target,” he said.

De Lacy thought she would refuse the contest; but to his surprise she smiled—­though with rather indifferent hauteur.

“It is hardly fitting, Sire,” she said, choosing an arrow, “that I should both contribute the prize and contest for it.”

Then Sir Aymer spoke, bowing low:  “May it please Your Majesty, I am your leal subject, yet I shall not shoot at yonder mark unless the Countess of Clare consent.”

She gave him a grateful look.

“I thank you, Sir Aymer, for the courtesy,” she said. . .  “Shoot and welcome;” and she stepped to the draw line.

It may have been that she was careless, or that the scene had made her nervous, for while her first two arrows struck the blanc truly as before, the third went a finger’s length above it.  With a shrug she turned away, and loosing the string leaned on the long stave, waiting.