The Seeing Stone by Kevin Crossley-Holland

scraped the ground with his right foot. Then he raised and bent his right arm, balanced the lance and ran up to the ring. At the last moment, he raised his left arm to steady himself, and then he thrust the lance forward to catch the ring.
    â€œGod’s teeth!” exclaimed my father, releasing the ring from under his left shoulder.
    â€œNearly!” I said.
    â€œNearly is never good enough,” said my father. “Do as I say, not as I do! Don’t run up to the ring too fast, otherwise you’ll never balance your lance. But don’t be too careful either; don’t let your feet stutter. Do you understand that?”
    â€œYes, father,” I said. “Why did you rub your hand on your tunic?”
    â€œTo wipe off the sweat. You can’t grip a lance with a damp hand. Now before you thrust the lance, bring your left shoulder right round, so that you’re running almost sideways to the ring, with your eyes looking along the line of your left shoulder.”
    â€œYes, father.”
    â€œGo on, then!”
    Six times I ran in from the marker where my father was standing, and then another six times from the marker on the other side of the ring, but it was no good. I couldn’t catch the ring, though I did once graze the outside of it with the tip of my lance, so that it rang and danced on its silken string.
    â€œYou’re not using your left arm,” my father said. “Raise it to steady yourself as you take aim with your right arm. And arch your back a little.”
    â€œYes, father.”
    My father pursed his lips and sighed. “I don’t know whether we’ll ever make a squire of you,” he said.
    â€œI’ll practice,” I said. “I promise.”
    â€œAll right,” said my father. “Let’s see you shoot now. You’re better at that. Though if you can see straight enough to shoot, I don’t know why you can’t catch the ring.”
    â€œIf I could use my left hand…” I began.
    â€œArthur!”
    â€œYes, father.”
    â€œRight! We’ll shoot three ends of three. That will be enoughfor me to see how you’re coming on. Then I must talk to Hum. Grey’s gone lame again, and Hum thinks she may need a splint.”
    â€œThat’s the third time,” I said.
    â€œAnd the last time I buy from Llewellyn. Bloody Welshman!”
    â€œLongbows came from Wales, though,” I said. “The first ones.”
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œYou did!”
    My father sniffed. “In that case,” he said, “you had better watch out. Your bow may soon go lame.”
    My father is better at talking than listening, and when he says we’ve discussed something, he means that he has made up his mind, and there’s no point my trying to change it. But when we’re alone, he really does listen to me. And laughs. He tells me all kinds of things about the life of a knight, wonderful things that no one else tells me.
    I laughed. “No, not lame!” I said. “But Serle says it’s too small for me.”
    â€œLet me have a look.”
    When I planted one end of the stave on the ground in front of me, I could easily see over it. In fact, I could almost tuck the top end under my chin.
    â€œIt’s much too small,” exclaimed my father. “Have you grown that much this year?”
    â€œCan I have one made of yew?”
    â€œYou knew that’s against the law. When you’re seventeen…”
    â€œSerle’s only sixteen.”
    My father sighed. “He’s in his seventeenth year, and when youare in your seventeenth year, you shall have a yew bow too. Anyhow,” he said, “I’ll ask Will to measure you up and cut you a new one. And some new shafts as well—with fine flights! How about that?”
    â€œThank you, father,” I said.
    â€œThese butts,” said my father. “How far apart are they?”
    â€œTwo