Longbow Girl by Linda Davies

She hoped it would never come to that. Another voice slipped into her mind: Survival has rules of its own . She jolted. Where had that come from?
    She headed out into the falling snow. Wondering if there were eyes watching her even now, she looked over her shoulder, turned in circles, scanned the bushes in the garden, peered behind corners, checking. Rechecking. But there was no one around. No footprints, just the smooth untrampled snow, and her.
    She released Jacintha from her stable. The pony’d be boredalone, would welcome the company of the herd, and was well able to handle the cold and the snow. But, more than that, Merry didn’t want Jacintha penned up, vulnerable. When she cast her mind back, she felt pretty sure she had secured the stable bolt properly. She had the strongest sense that the thief had freed Jacintha to lure her outside. It hadn’t been the wind that slammed the branch into her, knocking her over. It had been the thief, taking their chance, buying time to rush back into the farmhouse and finish their search for the book while she lay unconscious in the snow.
    Jacintha shadowed Merry as she went to the barn, grabbed a bale of hay and heaved it on to her back. It was as if she gauged Merry’s mood, her jumpiness and wanted to comfort her. The pony snuffled at Merry, then walked by her side as she trekked across the snow to the field where the herd huddled together.
    She stopped every so often, turning circles. Saw no one. She dumped the bale of hay, pulled out her knife, released the safety and with a satisfying click, the blade sprang open. She cut the twine and pulled free armfuls of hay, scattering it on the rick for the grateful ponies. She closed the blade, grasped the hilt firmly and used it to break the ice on the frozen troughs.
    She headed back to the farmhouse. Still no sign of anyone, no movement in her peripheral vision. But she took no comfort from that.
    Inside, she drank coffee, warmed up, then set to cleaning the cottage, top to bottom. She broke for lunch, forced down abowl of soup and three pieces of toast covered with peanut butter; then she finished cleaning. Still the time crawled. She felt sick. She decided to bake. She made fairy cakes, forty-eight of them. She put them in the oven. She paced. She listened. Swore. She felt like a caged animal. She peered out. It had stopped snowing at last.
    If anyone was still out there, waiting, she’d give them something to watch.
    She layered up with loose, flexible fleeces, unlocked the tallboy, took her bow, grabbed her quiver and headed out.
    She removed the tarpaulin from the straw target, strode back seventy paces. She didn’t turn circles this time, not wanting to appear a victim, as if she were scared. But she still checked. She just made it look natural, as if she were merely walking back and forth to mark a line from which she would shoot.
    She had her knife in her pocket, would always carry it with her now, but the longbow was her real weapon.
    Whoever had come into her home last night had changed something in her. Bubbling up through the fear, through the sense of vulnerability and violation, was a growing fury. Whoever had broken in, whoever had slammed her with the branch and left her lying unconscious in the snow, had declared war on her, her home and her family.
    She strung her bow, nocked an arrow, eyed the target. She took in the rings of colour: white, black, red, blue and dead centre, the golden bullseye. For the first time in her life, she conjured another image, replacing the straw target. She visualized a man. The faceless thief.
    Then she hauled back the string and let her arrow fly. In quick succession she shot ten arrows. Every single one hit the gold. Every single one was a kill shot. In her quiver, she had kept two spare arrows. Just in case . . .
    Now she turned a full circle. Not a circle of fear. Not an invitation. But a declaration of her own. She was not a helpless victim. She was a