An Earl for an Archeress

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  “Considering I’m the older sibling, I’ve never thought it wise to submit to the lad’s inferior protective skills,” she said. “And I assure you, a thief would not score much in the way of valuables from me.”

  “Have you no parents to ensure your safety?”

  She wanted to laugh at that remark. She did indeed have a father, though her safety was not his chief concern. Her mouse of a mother had languished in fear of her father, Harold Crawford, the Sheriff of Ayrshire, before she’d died. A cruel man, her father had earned the nickname The Beast of Ayr. And her sister…

  Oh my wee sister! Just the thought of her made the pain in Mariel’s heart ache anew. Madeline was a beauty—soft, demure, obedient, and quiet. So quiet, she was all but a shadow, and because Mariel was a horrible older sister, she had left Madeline behind to fend off their father on her own.

  Yet their father had always taken most of his anger out on Mariel, while her younger sister, due to her quiet nature, had escaped much of it. Unlike Madeline, Mariel had never been demure. She had argued when things seemed unjust, spoken out of turn, and Lord, had she rolled her eyes! Her father had hated it. No, Mariel might have had a title, but she had gladly left behind her father’s wealthy castle for a hidden hayloft here, a nook in a back alley there, or a secret campsite deep in the countryside. A hayloft or a campsite meant freedom from Harold Crawford. Thinking of what that man had done to her made her shudder. He was evil. Growing up his eldest daughter had been a curse.

  “I have no parents, my lord,” she replied. “It’s just me…and Elmer.” She caught herself.

  Now the man chuckled, folding his arms and taking a wide stance, which only enhanced his lean-waisted, broad-shouldered physique. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop herself from a quick perusal of his shape—as he had done of hers moments before.

  “Come off it, Miss. There is no Elmer, and you and I both know it.” He lifted her hands in his and inspected them. “Wear you no gauntlet for archery?”

  She whipped her hands away from him, causing her packs to lurch down her arms. Embarrassingly, it threw her off balance and she stumbled, though the man grabbed her shoulders to steady her. Was her ruse so easily spotted? And her hands and wrists did, in fact, bear marks where the bow had snapped her over the years and where calluses had formed beneath her fingers.

  “I…I wear one, but only when I must. The leather is in poor repair and needs restitching.”

  He thought for a moment. “’Twas a moderate purse I saw you handling. Why not purchase what you need here? Perhaps a new gauntlet?”

  “Would I not be turned away for attempting to try on and purchase male goods? Just as I was from your tent by that fat arse of a man?” she countered.

  Instead of growing angered, like some men would at a flippant female, he tipped his head back and laughed.

  “Ah, yes. Sir Wesley. I noticed your pretty smiles and wily ways lost on him.” He leaned down close to her ear as if to tell a secret, and she caught the smell of mint, leather, and wine. Coming from him, it was a heady potion. She also glimpsed the shadow of a beard forming. Entirely too attractive. “He prefers, how shall I put it? Stallions, to mares, if you understand my meaning. Your feminine manners only irritated him, I’m afraid.”

  She didn’t think it was possible to feel scandalized, living like she did and enjoying the occasional comforts of a man, but immediately she blushed. Such an act of sexuality could get a man killed, if he weren’t careful. She cleared her throat, and then her stomach growled. Loudly.

  “The food stalls are from whence you came as well, Miss,” the man stated, amusement still contorting his lips.

  “I thank thee for pointing out the obvious,” she simpered with a syrupy smile. “I was unaware.”

  “Come now, no need to be all prickles and thorns. We’re competitors but not adversaries,” he said. “I’m Robert. And you are?”

  Competitors? Dear Lord, I am in over my head with this one. The man had the look of an expert archer: well-developed shoulders, toned physique. Of course, now his lack of a warrior breadth made sense. He was definitely a fit man, but trained for archery, agility, and speed, not for swinging flail maces and pole axes. And she desperately needed the prize money. Though Robert wore little to denote his rank, his golden hilt and a few bejeweled rings told her he lived a comfortable life. Why would he possibly need more wealth?

  “Are you going to deny me my pleasantries due? ’Tis considered polite to return an introduction,” he scolded, though there was only teasing in his voice, not censure.

  She couldn’t tell him her name. The fear that accompanied the thought of her father finding her and dragging her back to Scotland overcame her. If word that Mariel Crawford was in southern England should reach the walls of Castle Ayr, Harold the Beast would know exactly where to locate his runaway daughter. She had managed to live eight months of freedom and she could only hope for many more.

  She sighed, rolled her eyes, shook her head, and attempted to sidestep him. “I really must be going.”

  He blocked her path. “What’s so hard about saying a name?”

  She tried to sidestep him again, and again, Robert stepped in front of her. She could feel him watching the indecision on her face. She came to a conclusion and lifted her chin defiantly.

  “I cannot tell you,” she huffed, blowing out the corner of her mouth like one would blow an errant lock of hair from their face.

  “Then I shall have to call you Elmer,” he said with a laugh. “Come, Elmer. And get yourself a leg of turkey. The fare is quite good this year.”

  Her stomach growled again, right on cue, and she gripped her middle with embarrassment. “All the same, I seek privacy.”

  She hoisted her packs upward again and managed to get around him this time when he grabbed her wrist. She snapped her arm away and her coin purse snagged through his hands, ripping the strings and spilling the contents on the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but then he looked down and saw pebbles scattered in the grass. His brow furrowed. Mariel’s face burned, but she couldn’t think to do anything. He looked back at her, concern for her as clear on his face as the sun was in his eyes. “Have you no money?”

  She straightened her back, searching for courage, and turned away from him. Humiliation never lost its sickly feeling. “I have none. Your man Wesley demanded my only spare shilling.”

  “And that was all the coin to your name?”

  She shrugged. Nodding would be too acquiescent.

  “But how will you eat?”

  She laughed; a huff, really. “I’ve always been resourceful. And when I win today, my problem will be solved. Hunger is a good motivator.”

  She walked away, only to stop in her tracks once more when Robert leaped in front of her. Again. “Do you mind―”

  “You’re really that good at slinging an arrow?”

  “Don’t you have a whore awaiting you?” she snapped. If her words were too aggressive, it certainly wasn’t because the idea bothered her.

  “Two, actually,” he said smugly, folding his arms.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, but it only made him chuckle.

  “Remember, Wesley plays on and for the man’s team. Someone will need to entertain the woman brought for him, and I find it my solemn duty to take responsibility for my man’s shortcomings, like any good noble would.”

  She rolled her eyes…again. Another chuckle escaped Robert.

  “So, are you that good?”

  She gazed up at him and for once didn’t try to hide her vulnerability. But the pity that overtook Robert’s face told Mariel that he saw something fragile and broken. She tried to strengthen her expression. “I have to be confident, don’t I? ’Tis a man’s world I brave alone. My next meal depends on it.”

  He paused, then nodded with something akin to respect. Then he
dug into his codpiece, doubling as a purse, and Mariel tried her damnedest not to watch, for he may as well be trifling with his cock.

  “Here, Elmer,” he baited, holding out a shilling. “A reimbursement for the unfair tax levied against you. Your complaint was duly noted by the head of staff.”

  She rolled her eyes once more. “Do you say nothing without a sense of humor? How exhausting for the lady in your life.” She frowned, attempting to leave him once and for all. “I won’t take charity. ’Tis not your place to recompense me.”

  “Woman.” He sighed, halting her once more, exhibiting a hint of exasperation. As if she were a common harlot, he shoved the coin down her bodice, his finger sliding into her cleavage, leaving her scandalized and speechless. “It is my place. I’m hosting this entire event. The staff here is mine. The land is mine. The tents are mine. And the food is mine.” Her bloody stomach growled again. “With my money, I’ll do as I damn well please. And don’t worry. Nary a man will recognize Elmer like I did, for nary a man would think a mere girl bold enough to break such a law.”

  And then to her shock, he bent down and stole a kiss, a light dusting of his lips over hers before grinning like an egg-stealing cur and walking away. “Good luck, my fetching one,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re going to need it.”

  …

  All morning Mariel’s lips tingled. What had possessed the man to think he had the right to kiss her? Especially when he was about to satisfy his fancies with two other women? She shouldn’t care about it, for it wasn’t as if she knew him, but she did care. He, of course, was a fine specimen of the male gender, but she had met men like him before. No—arrogant kiss aside—he was thoughtful, took time to observe and consider things. And he was hosting this event? That would make him the bloody Earl of Huntington, though he hadn’t introduced himself as such and neither was he flaunting his status. And he kissed me…

  “You’re a gullible sop if you think that kiss meant a damn thing to him,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  She finished binding her chest to flatten her breasts, the one lush thing about her body that made her proud. The rest of her was toned, from the daily exercise of rough living, and too skinny from many lean days without much to eat. She was not nearly as curvy as was popular among ladies. Next, as she stood among the trees in the blissful silence, a brook babbling by her feet, she released her coiffure and allowed her honey-blonde braid to hang free. She unknotted the tie and pulled the cords apart, shaking them loose in a ripple of gold. She had been told by a lover once that her hair was the color of barley at sunset. She liked to think of it like that, though she knew that it, too, was plain.

  She bound it into a ponytail, then with practiced precision, folded it under and wrapped it in laces so it resembled a horse’s cropped tail, pulling some shorter wisps loose to hang down her face. After she had rubbed dust upon her skin to give herself a more masculine look, she threw her cloak over her shoulders, strapped her quiver to her hip, and tucked her gown and effects beneath a rotting log, away from the eyes of scavengers and thieves, both of whom made a killing at fairs. With thieves plaguing the surrounding forests, as Robert had just informed her, there was more cause to be cautious.

  Pulling on her gauntlets, the stitching was indeed in a woeful state. But alas, there was nothing to be done about it. With the prize money, she would be able to purchase a needle and threading.

  A horn was blasting in the distance, a call for competitors to arrive at the champ de tir, the shooting range. She walked from the woods through the grasses, into the sea of tents and fairgoers, through the salty smells of vendors’ foods. She entered the champ de tir and found a table set up for checking in contestants. Banners surrounded the pitch. Shimmering coats of arms of every color. The Earl of Huntington’s bold black-and-green standards trimmed with silver were the most prominent, framing the stands covered in a matching awning.

  And there he was, the handsome earl, nestled into a throne of a chair with several tittering maidens fawning over him, which he humored with a smile, a laugh, or a wink. He was slouching on one arm, his legs wide, no doubt giving his generous codpiece breathing room, like a bloody king overlooking his dominion. Mariel couldn’t help but gawk. But when the man looked out over the proceedings and spotted her, small of stature compared to the men around her, he seemed to straighten.

  Her eyes flitted to the targets set up afar, as if they were the most interesting things. Arriving at the table, she put an X beside Elmer’s name and moved to her prescribed target. She ignored her competitors who looked down at her, shaking their heads or uttering a jest to one another at her expense. She wasn’t used to being taken seriously, anyway. Because she looked like a lad, she was dismissed as poorly skilled. She’d let their doubt bolster her. She was good, and soon they would be swallowing their smug words, and their surprise and irritation would only serve to encourage her more.

  She had begun practicing in secret ever since she was a child. A kindly priest, also her tutor―for despite her father’s overlord ways, he needed her to know her letters and numbers should he have no choice but to declare her his heir―had wanted to teach her to focus her restless energy on a task. He had placed cloth letters, words, and figures upon a target, and instructed her to shoot the correct answers to his questions.

  And from that, not only had her knowledge grown, but her archery skills had blossomed. She could solve figures and shoot with precision, both tasks of which women were deemed too simple of mind. And when her father had demanded she marry a domineering English earl known for his “iron fist” to subdue her “uppitiness,” she had bolted. Fast. Leaving my sweet sister behind. And she had been running ever since. She felt a pang in her chest.

  “Good day, Elmer. Should be a cracking competition, no?”

  She whirled around. Somehow, without her noticing, Huntington had snuck up on her. That usually never happened. Living as the daughter of the Beast had taught her to be on guard at all times and never leave her back vulnerable.

  “’Twould seem I’ve been placed beside you,” he added.

  “’Twould seem,” she replied, feeling sweat from the East Anglian sun make her brow moist. Except she had seen the lineup before taking her place, and Robert had been placed elsewhere, which meant he had switched places with her neighbor. “So you might continue to taunt me, no doubt.” She smirked, rolling her eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  Sakes, had she said that aloud? Lord but she was distracted. “Nothing.”

  He circled her, his arms folded, and damn it, but her stomach growled again. Thankfully, he made no more remarks about it. She faced forward, waiting for him to finish, feeling her pulse spike at his nearness. She didn’t need this before a competition. She needed to relax and focus. If she didn’t win, she would have to resort to stealing game and hiding her cooking fires, if she had any hope of surviving. With no prize money, she would have no way to enter the next tournament in about a month’s time in Essex. And wouldn’t the Sheriff of Nottingham enjoy catching her for hunting the king’s game? With his repute, he would throw her in a dungeon.

  But if she could save enough, she could eventually buy passage to France, and from there fade away from her father’s constant searching, into the mainland, perhaps Rhineland or even Naples or Genoa. Into oblivion. And that thought was enough to help her find her focus. Harold Crawford simply couldn’t find her, or else she might not live to be married off to his chosen noble. He might very well beat her to death for her transgression. I must win.

  With her focus in place, she didn’t even notice when the earl backed off and took up his position beside her.

  “All contestants will complete two ends of six arrows each!” shouted the barker, reading from a scroll. “The four highest scorers will advance to the second round, and more’s the pity for the sorry buggers who do not!”

  The stands laughed at his remark whi
le a duo of jesters pretended to shoot arrows, one exaggerating victory while mocking the second’s inferiority. When they were done frolicking, the barker continued.

  “For any arrows that deflect, the contestant is immediately disqualified! The second round will consist of two more ends! And only two will advance to the final round! Which means two more contestants will be leaving without the purse of forty shillings, but indeed with their tails betwixt their legs!” Again the jesters entertained the masses with a ridiculous skit and vulgar gestures referring to the “tail” all men sported between their thighs, causing rows of laughter and scandalized tittering from the ladies. “In the final round, marksmanship will be judged by hitting different marks on the target, marked by the numbers one through five and the final arrow a bull’s eye! Or so we can only hope! One end! And of this, one winner!”

  She absorbed the rules. All contests were similar, but this tournament had attracted a large gathering and twenty contestants, so there would be three rounds instead of two. As the barker cleared himself from the pitch, the call was made to present an arrow. A flag was raised. Mariel withdrew an arrow from her quiver at her hip, nocked it, and drew back her arm and shoulder blade.

  When the flag dropped, twenty arrows soared down the pitch. One arrow bounced off target and flopped in the grass. The contestant, angered, stormed off the field with laughter and jeers at his back. Three more arrows were off-center. Mariel’s arrow had struck the middle, as she had expected. So had Huntington’s, she noted. And Huntington had seen hers. She could tell by the way he glanced over his shoulder in her direction before returning his eyes to the field as the judges walked down the row of targets and examined each shot.

  Boys scrambled onto the champ de tir to collect each arrow and then cleared off. The flag was raised, the nineteen remaining contestants nocked another arrow from their hips and again, a shower of projectiles was released. She hit center again. So did Huntington. As the contest progressed and twelve arrows were released, Mariel was among the top four scorers to succeed to the second round. And to her chagrin, Huntington was also one of the four.