An Earl for an Archeress

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  The bed was stripped bare, but Mariel’s packs sat untouched against a trunk. She had abandoned everything to get away from him. He must have made her feel trapped, he realized. He knew he was relentless in anything he decided to pursue, but his incessant knocking must have been suffocating. And so she’d fled.

  He left the bar on the door for a moment, gazing at the packs. He picked one up in each hand and carried them to the bed. They were light. He opened one, untying the leather strings that held shut the flap, and pulled out a brush. The paddle was gilded and the handle was carved out of fine ivory. He set it aside and pulled out a matching comb, the handle carved out of the same ivory with dancing forest nymphs detailed in relief. His thumb rubbed over it.

  His chest ached as he held her possessions. She was right. What right did he have to worry for her? Detain her? Yet none of his logical questions made his heart ache any less. God, he was becoming infatuated with her. It probably wasn’t healthy. Yet he must go after her and ensure she was well. He should go down on one knee and beg that she listen to him.

  He dug around into her packs and his fingers closed on a thick wad of fabric. Pulling it out, it was the gown she had worn at the archery tent. It was indeed shabby, though the velvet and wool had once been fine.

  He set it aside and opened the other pack. Her beaded coif was within, wrapped in a cloth to protect the materials, and again, up close, he realized at one point it had been a fine accessory. Looking closely, the beads were not just made of glass or smoothed pebbles, but were intricate seed pearls. Lord, but the garment was an expensive one. Feeling deeper in the pocket, he found a book. He pulled out the book and examined the leather cover.

  “Miracles of Evagrius and Gregory of Tours,” he read aloud. Impressive. Mariel was indeed a learned woman. He began to read. It was a short book and its significance to Mariel at first did not seem apparent. But as he read, he learned that the child in the story had been thrown into a fire by his own father and was protected by the Virgin Mary’s mantle. Why had Mariel kept this story? The book was worn and old. How many times had Mariel read it, making the parchment thin and the binding threadbare? How many times had she been thrown into the figurative fire by her father, only to wish someone had protected her?

  He finished reading, feeling an angry tick in his jaw. Harold Crawford should be dead. The bastard didn’t deserve to live and most certainly didn’t deserve the honor of raising two daughters. And he, Robert Huntington, had just let Mariel Crawford go, the woman he knew now, without any doubt, he wanted. They might have learned loving from others, but he was determined that she would know him as her last and her only from henceforth.

  He searched in the pouch one last time, and his fingers enclosed on the leather purse of coin he had forced upon her. Dammit, she was now both defenseless and penniless. She had indeed found a way to refuse his charitable coin. He needed to find her, let her know he would never give up on her, make her listen to the truth of his visit to Charlotte, that it had nothing to do with favors of the bedchamber and everything to do with a favor of friendship.

  But his men were also planning their raid in another day henceforth. He hadn’t slept since the night before and if he didn’t rest for at least a little while, he would risk making a grave, clumsy misstep. Nottingham wouldn’t expect the forest thieves to attack him a second time so soon. He couldn’t miss the opportunity to catch Nottingham off guard. They needed to act on him as he evicted yet another poor man. Thankfully, the eviction would be near the route toward London. And likely, Mariel was traveling that route, since she had expressed that she wished to venture that way. Mayhap he could kill two birds with one stone, so the saying went, and find her along the way.

  …

  In the blackness of the nighttime forest, finding Robert’s hidden supplies had been too difficult, though Mariel knew there was a stash somewhere close. She had hoped to find a blanket, at the least. She shivered, curled against a tree at the very campsite she had shared with Robert, when he had spoken honestly of his father and mother, where he had lain beneath the covers with her, where he had offered her his shoulder and chest while they slept. She could still taste the sweetness of his lips as he had kissed her and pressed his body to hers, heating her with his warmth.

  It was cold. The fire pit sat black and empty. Dawn approached, and the sky was lightening. Her horse lumbered to the little stream and filled its stomach. She roused herself, shivering uncontrollably, and gathered the animal’s saddle up to reassemble her mount for the long day’s journey. Her soul felt tired. Her heart hurt, and more than once, Robert’s voice begging her to open her door, begging that she listen to him, that she had misunderstood, rang in her mind. What if she had?

  It was too late. What was done was done. She had her freedom again and could move about at will once more. Her stomach growled, having grown accustomed to the rich foods at Huntington, and she realized she had left her sack of coin within her packs. She sighed at the loss. Forty coins was a lot of money to gain and then lose again.

  She wove onward through the dense trees for the better part of the day, sensing the sun dropping lower on its descent toward nightfall. Her stomach ached for food, relentless in its reminders that she was unable to fill it. She crossed the Huntington border, passing a wooden sign staked into the ground by the main road. Tears for her possessions—her book of miracles and the ribbon she had already lost—choked her throat, and she soon realized it was the thought of losing the chance with Robert that was plaguing her heart. Mayhap I’ve made a grand mistake.

  She chanced upon a dilapidated cottage. A pile of furs sat untouched on a rickety stand beside the door and looked as if they had been prepared months before. Likely the hut only had room for a cot, a hearth, and a table and chair. Whoever lived here was poor. But the poor were generous, she had learned. It was the wealthy who were stingy with their resources. The poor knew what it was like to have not, and often shared.

  She dismounted in the surrounding trees, tied back her straggly hair into a long braid, and looked down helplessly at her bosom cinched upward by her corset. There was no way to bind herself flat again. Hopefully, the person on the other side of the cottage door was kind and would offer her a badly needed meal, instead of trying to take advantage.

  She kept her daggers in place and led her horse into the small clearing, walking straight up to the door. Lifting her fist, she rapped upon it and stepped back. Shuffling sounded on the other side. An old man answered, pulling back the door on squeaking, mismatched hinges.

  He stooped low but had likely been her height in his younger years. Still, his face was kindly, his beard white and unwashed, and a smile creased his wrinkled face to reveal a mouth of few teeth. He looked her up and down to assess who she was, though he didn’t seem to care that she was dressed in a lad’s clothing.

  “Are you lost?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m on my way to London town and hoped for a bit of broth or meat if you have it. I haven’t a way to pay but would be happy to help with a chore or two to earn the meal,” she said in her best English accent.

  “What are you doing traveling about alone? Don’t you know thieves could tear you apart?”

  She nodded. “I don’t wish to travel alone, but all the same, I need nourishment. If you have nothing to offer, I understand.”

  She turned to leave, her stomach still growling with pain she had hoped to forget after her stay at Huntington.

  “Don’t you worry,” he called. She looked back. “Me old shoulders cannot carry the work they once did. I’m a woodsman, but have not been able to hunt or cut wood for a long time, since before me wife died.” He motioned for her to come inside. “I have little, but what I have, you are welcome to share.”

  She nodded her thanks and entered the cottage. Years of accumulated items, saws, tools, and an old hunting bow were tacked to the walls and a window with no glass was positi
oned opposite the door over his table. He gestured to the one chair he possessed, a roughly hewn piece of furniture made out of incongruent sticks twined together, and went to his hearth, where he pulled out a pot.

  “You’re not some sort of criminal, are you?” he eyed her as he slopped the plain broth into a bowl and tore away a chunk of bread from his loaf.

  “Nay. My story is my own, but I thank thee kindly for sharing what you have,” she said, and sank into the meal.

  The broth was boiling and burned her throat, but her hunger was so overpowering she cared not, tearing off ravenous bites of bread like she was a wolf and saturating them in the liquid. The bread was coarse, seeded, and could hardly be called bread, for it was unleavened and plain. He watched her finish the food, then took the bowl from her.

  “It’s all I have to offer,” he said, giving her a sympathetic look, “else I shall starve this day.”

  She nodded and smiled, when she heard the sound of hooves approaching from far down the path. She went to the door and cracked it, waiting to see what colors might be coming into view. The man hobbled up beside her and looked out. Her horse sat outside, grazing into the trees, its chestnut tail flicking from side to side.

  “Have you brought trouble down upon me?” the old man asked, leveling a glare at her.

  She shook her head. “No. I know not who these people could be…”

  Her words trailed away as she saw the standard of the Sheriff of Nottingham come into view, though it was not Nottingham’s colors that made her voice falter. The standard of the Sheriff of Ayr also came into view. The menacing eyes of her father, his piercing, cold stare absorbing his surroundings as their horses approached the cottage, settled on the door.

  She withdrew inside, the color draining from her face. Crawford would sense her fear. There was nowhere to go. How had he found her? She should have remained at Huntington. She was cornered. Her hands shook, her knees quaked, and she felt a sob attempt to lodge in her throat. The Beast of Ayr was about to reclaim his flighty daughter, and she would soon feel his wrath once again.

  …

  Robert, John, Will, Alan, and David-the-mute traversed the forest path on foot, having left their horses well off in the trees, and exited Huntington lands. With a finger flick, his men dispersed into the trees. They stalked forward toward the sorry bugger’s cottage, the man they knew was about to be evicted, according to David’s eavesdropping at Nottingham Castle. They needed to make haste, to ensure they converged together with Nottingham upon the cottage.

  There had been no sign of Mariel in their day of travel, aside from some tracks that led up to the secluded campsite he had spent the night at with her, where he had wanted so badly to peel away her tunic and trousers by the firelight, bury himself in her warmth, and make love to her with his words, his lips, and all that was masculine about his body. Their campsite, where he had confessed about his father’s brutish ways, his disinterest in Charlotte, and told her of her father’s plan to wed her to his own father. Where he had awoken to her nestled into his arms, her barley hair tangled around his hand. Where he had begun to realize this was a woman that could see him to the altar. He had mentioned none of it to his men when they’d passed by as he dwelled on the memory.

  But after passing the mouth of the path, he had not seen any more tracks, nor had he smelled the remnants of a campfire. Apparently, his woman had slept in the cold and dark with nothing to protect her. Clearly, she had learned to minimize the chances of his guards capturing her again.

  My woman. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. But knowing she had sought out their campsite made him smile wistfully, even if her cold night spent in misery bothered him. Perhaps she did care. Perhaps she did want him. He let the hope that she had so thoroughly dashed rekindle in his heart. For after his poorly night spent wallowing in his loss and drinking too much ale, he might now have the chance to win her affection again. If he found her.

  They began to converge on a clearing through the thinning tree trunks and found the rock landmark beside their hidden cache of supplies. Lifting the weaving of branches and underbrush, he withdrew several coils of rope. Creeping forward, he came closer and saw the cottage of Nottingham’s next victim. He allowed himself a moment of regret. Mariel should have been on this raid, too. A horse whickered. Looking closely at it, his pulse quickened. It was Mariel’s horse. His heart jumped. She had likely only been a mile or less ahead of them the whole time!

  He wanted to run to the door and retrieve her, collect her in his arms, and tell her she was a fool for thinking he partook of Charlotte’s favors, but instead took the time to set up the ropes he had slung over his shoulders. There was little time before Nottingham arrived, and there was no way he would best the man if he wasn’t prepared. Climbing a tree to a high branch alongside the path, he braced himself between a couple boughs and tied one of the ropes securely, seeing that his men did the same, though no one spoke or acknowledged one another.

  Dropping the rope, he climbed down, took hold of the dangling line, and strode silently across the clearing. He climbed an opposite tree and hung the rope end over a branch, tying off a new rope, climbing down, and carrying the end to another tree, where he climbed up and draped the end over another branch once more. He repeated the ritual with two more ropes.

  His task complete, he slunk back through the forest and retrieved his bow and quarterstaff, and ensured he had an abundance of arrows should he need them, flipping the deerskin lid over his quiver. He pulled up his green hood slouching around his neck, dragging it down over his eyes. Nottingham would be lumbering down that path with a smattering of soldiers soon, demanding rent, and then would throw the old man out on his arse when he couldn’t pay, ordering his soldiers to raze the hovel. It was time to get Mariel out.

  He perched his staff against a tree and was just about to go to the cottage when he heard horses. His pulse quickened. It was Nottingham. The sheriff was arriving that moment and Mariel was inside the old man’s hut.

  “Dammit,” he whispered, stepping behind the tree and waving to capture John’s attention.

  He motioned toward the hut, indicating he was going to attempt to go inside. John threw his hands up with confusion and irritation, motioning to the road. Yes, Robert understood. Nottingham approached, and this deviated from the plan. Still, he motioned toward the cottage and mouthed, “Elmer’s horse.”

  It took John a moment to understand, his eyes scrutinizing the beast, but when he did, the white sheen that covered his face indicated he suddenly knew what was at stake. Robert left it to Jonathan to inform the others and crept through the trees, padding silently over pine needles and underbrush, and came to the back of the shack where the window stood, shutters open. He peered around the cottage as the men on horseback approached.

  Crawford was riding with Nottingham!

  “Dammit!” he mouthed again, retreating back behind the shack. Crawford was assessing the cottage…and Mariel’s horse.

  Peering inside the window, he saw Mariel with the old man behind the door, her face ghostly, and a terrified tremble shaking her whole body.

  “You said you didn’t bring trouble down upon me.” The old man was scolding her.

  She shook her head, seemingly unable to find words.

  “Psst,” Robert said, leaning in the window.

  Both whirled around.

  “You’re in danger,” he whispered, though the command in his voice was palpable.

  Mariel was too frightened to glare or offer her signature eye roll, and the old man looked as though his ancient heart might give out as he grabbed the wall for support. It was then Robert realized that, dressed in a hood, his face wasn’t discernible.

  “Come,” Robert commanded, motioning to both of them. “Out the window.”

  “Who are you?” began the old man.

  “No questions. Come.”

  Mariel exhaled
as if she had held all of England’s air in her lungs and dashed to the window, snatching up her bow. She recognizes me. Could it be she was glad to see him? She lifted one leg over the sill, though Robert hauled her out the rest of the way. She clung to his arm, but he extracted himself. There was no time to take comfort in the fact that she sought safety in his arms. With a single gesture, he pointed at the ground to indicate she should wait beside him, and then turned back to the old man, holding his hands out to help him out the window.

  The old man shook his head. “Who’s coming down this road?”

  “The Sheriff of Nottingham, William de Wendenal. To collect your rents,” Robert said. “There’s no guarantee he won’t harm you.”

  The old man shook his head. “I’ll wait and meet him. Surely he’ll be merciful to an old widower who has no money left.”

  “Your trust in him is misplaced, old man,” Robert cautioned. “I’ve seen him cause great damage to others. Come, and I can at least guarantee your safety.”

  The old man shook his head. “Me wife’s belongings are here and I’ve nothing else left. I can’t climb out windows or run away. I can barely walk. Take this woman away with you and be gone. I’ll fare okay. I have for eighty-eight winters already.”

  Robert shook his head but acquiesced to the man’s request and took Mariel’s hand. He dashed back into the woods to the nearest tree and hauled her behind it. Bracing her to the bark, he ripped back his hood, letting it pool around his neck. He crushed his lips to hers, demanding a kiss from her in return, and gripped the sides of her face. Then he stepped back before she could respond, drew in a breath, and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her.

  “You daft woman!” he whispered. “I didn’t go to Charlotte for her favors. I went to ask her a favor, to help me. To assemble for you the comforts of a lady, since you’re a noblewoman, for I wished to please you, and she’s the only noblewoman there aside from Anna—who I can hardly tolerate—and I trust Charlotte’s judgment. I went to her for you. I’m not a liar. I told you I have no interest in the woman and dammit, I expect you to start believing me. How many times do I need to explain myself? How much harder must I work to convince you I’m not the bastard you want to believe I am?”