An Earl for an Archeress

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  He lunged in for another kiss again, but she fought her mouth away.

  “Why did you not tell me?” she demanded.

  “You did not give me a chance,” he said, venom flowing over his lips. “And you climbed out your window, so I could not tell you. Would you have listened? Or would you have called me a liar and an arse? Your ire was higher than I’ve ever seen. I don’t give a shite right now if you hate me and want to leave me. You’re unsafe at the present and I’m your only means for protection. So get off your high horse and submit yourself to my help. If only to escape your father right now, quit fighting me every step of the bloody way and submit, woman! I care for you whether or not you care for me, and you’re in grave danger!”

  To his surprise, she had no retort, no shove to deliver, no tantrum to throw, and her eyes never once rolled. Her mouth fell open, but then it closed. She nodded. “I thank thee.”

  Now it was his turn to be surprised, and a smidge remorseful for having been so forceful. But there was no time to take pride in his tiny victory. He had her back and that was all that mattered. He nodded once, took up her hand, his bow in the other, and hauled her farther into the trees, circling around to the front of the cottage. Beside a sturdy pine tree with several branches like shelves, he motioned for her to climb.

  “Don’t rustle the branches or make a single noise,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t come down until I tell you it’s safe. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  …

  Cautiously, she began to rise, moving from one branch to another. By the time she climbed three branches, she looked down at Robert again, though the man had vanished, and her father, alongside Nottingham, began to pass under her. She froze and held her breath. If she could have paused her heart, she would have, for certainly the pulse knocking her chest was as loud as a festival drum.

  The horses passed without issue. Mariel resumed climbing, pulling herself up, taking time to brace each foot, gaining just the right balance to rise up with the least amount of shaking. Finally, she sat on a high branch concealed behind boughs and needles, and watched. She had only been higher than she was now when standing on a castle parapet, and there was a difference between standing on a solid stone fortification and sitting precariously on a tree branch with the forest floor directly beneath, as a reminder of how violently one might die hitting the ground. If that were to happen, it wouldn’t matter one iota if her father was there to haul her away to his castle towers.

  But now that she sat here, why on earth had the blasted earl convinced her that climbing this tree would be safest? Shouldn’t she be making haste to her horse to run as far away from here as possible? She exhaled, wanting to kick herself as she realized how easily Robert had bent her to his will…again.

  A movement in the opposite tree caught her attention. It took a moment to decipher who it was, but there was no mistaking Little John’s broad frame. Though hooded, she could tell he looked at her. He gave her a single nod, then turned his attention back to the procession now halting in front of the woodsman’s door.

  Comprehension dawned. This was the raid they had been discussing in Robert’s solar two days before. She had managed to get herself caught right in the thick of it. She looked down at Harold Crawford and could at least feel a jot of relief, that as long as he was still out roaming the countryside in search of her and in search of more political clout, he wasn’t at home terrorizing her fragile sister. Guilt washed through her again for abandoning Madeline to her own devices. What kind of a person was she, leaving her helpless wee sister alone?

  Nottingham clearing his throat distracted her from her guilty conscience. A squirrel bounded over the roof of the hut onto a low-hanging branch. How Robert had known the woodsman was going to be Nottingham’s next target, she could not say, but it likely had much to do with the comings and goings of David, who Robert had said made an excellent spy. Come to think of it, she had seen him pass Robert a missive on her first night in the great hall while dining at Jonathan’s table. She hadn’t known David at the time. Clearly David’s role in Robert’s band of men was more about his sleuthing talents.

  The Beast of Ayr turned to Nottingham and said something. Her nerves spiked, anticipating what she might witness. Nottingham was about to do something horrible, or disgusting, or even illegal. She had already seen him do such to the forest peasant and his wife. Robert was right. With no law in the king’s absence, someone had to act on the side of justice and take back what Nottingham had ill-gotten. If there was no recourse for the common people in the absence of King Richard, at what point did men decide to fight lawless sovereigns with lawlessness of their own?

  A common man might have a weapon or two, but swords and metal were expensive. Only the wealthy had those, and Nottingham was using his might to terrorize others. It would take either the wealthy purse of a noble to outfit a force against tyranny, or it would take the wealthy man himself to face down the tyrant with power of his own. ’Twas obvious that Robert was taking matters into his own hands in the only way he could, while preserving his own estates and position, by hiding his identity as the thief of the forest and assailing Nottingham with his infectious and merry smile.

  Except, she counted at least five and ten men donning the Nottingham and Ayr colors. Robert was mad. Completely and utterly mad. He had four other men beside himself, and though they were prepared with their quarterstaffs, swords, and bows, they wore no jingling armor. Certainly, she was about to watch him commit suicide against such odds.

  “These beggars, my friend, are what’s the trouble with England,” Nottingham drawled. “They’ve subsisted off King Richard’s generosity, hunting our lawful game, and have nothing to show for it. This dilapidated pile of wood and daub is on the king’s rented land, and their obligation is to pay rent and keep it in good repair.”

  “Obviously, they can nay do even that. I’ve the same trouble in the north,” agreed the Beast of Ayr in his Scottish brogue.

  Mariel’s gut churned with disgust. The aging woodsman had no coin to purchase repairs. He had hardly any food. Hay would need to be purchased for rethatching and it would cost any man dearly. A woodsman would rely on fur trades, lumber, and crafted woodworks to acquire what he needed, and at eighty-eight years, he wasn’t capable of labor anymore.

  The door opened and the old man hobbled out. His eyes widened as he gazed up at William de Wendenal perched atop his destrier. “M’lord Nottingham. A pleasure to see you.” He bowed, though the nervous tremor to his voice gave away his fear.

  Mariel watched, knowing her heart was about to break.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” the man continued. “I’m afraid the pantry is thin and I haven’t any ale to speak of, but you’re welcome to a drink of cold water.”

  “No water,” Nottingham replied with a curl of the nose, as if the poor man’s water was inferior. All knew that many of the nobles relied on private wells. “I’ve come for the rent.”

  The man bowed his head again and again. “Begging your pardon, m’lord—”

  Nottingham gave Crawford a knowing rise of the eyebrows, to which Crawford harrumphed and nodded.

  “—but I’ve been unable to hunt. Bad leg and bad back.”

  “Why have you not sold those pelts to purchase repairs to the cottage?” demanded Nottingham.

  The man’s voice shook noticeably. “There were no buyers for them at the time, and since I sold my dray horse last month to cover the rents, I’ve no way to get them back to market.”

  “You could carry them,” replied Nottingham.

  “I’ll try to do just that, if you give me the chance. ’Twill take me sennights, but I’m sure I can manage.”

  “Too late. ’Twould be cheaper to tear the cottage down and build anew rather than fix this mess. And if you cannot pay your rent, you cannot reside here any longer. Men?”

  “What�
�what are you doing?” the old man cried, as Nottingham’s men dismounted. “Wait…wait!”

  He tried to stop them, but the guards pushed him aside and marched over the threshold, sending the old man off balance and tumbling to the earth.

  “Confiscate anything of value!” bellowed Nottingham. “The rest? Pile it out here and burn the place!”

  “Stop!” begged the woodsman. “I beg you! Give me some time and I’ll find the money, I swear it!”

  No one listened. The old man tried to get to his feet, but without a crutch or a ledge to pull up on, he could do little more than sit there. Mariel covered her mouth, her eyes welling with tears. She hadn’t seen the peasant and his pregnant wife get ousted, and watching it happen to the old man caused pain to squeeze her heart.

  The soldiers ignored the old man, trailing out of the house with his scant possessions, dumping a sewing basket that had no doubt been his wife’s into the pile, and taking the man’s only cooking pot and his hunting weapons.

  “The only things of value, my lord,” said a soldier. “The rest, just this old table, roughly hewn, some rags, no doubt belonging to his woman. The bed won’t fit through the door, but looks to be in disrepair. Surely it is riddled with nits.”

  Nottingham nodded once, his black gaze emotionless as the old man fell into tears. “Please…” he begged. “Please…”

  “Set it aflame, men, and let’s move on!”

  The old man found the strength to rise when he saw the oil flagons come out and the soldiers begin to douse the thatching with it.

  “Stop!” he wailed, running up to a soldier and grabbing his arm. The soldier shoved him away once more. The old man staggered backward, hobbling to stand beneath Nottingham’s horse. “I’ve never known another home! Stop, I beg you! Where will I go?”

  “This land is now in my stewardship until King Richard returns! Where you go is not my concern, but you’ll freeload no more on the king’s benevolence!” roared Nottingham, erupting into a rage. “Collect your meager things and be gone!”

  The poor man cringed, watching helplessly as a soldier cracked a flint and a spark ignited the thatching. Tears streamed down his face. Tears streamed down Mariel’s face. Rage hardened her brow. She had seen her father employ such tactics of intimidation time and again and had certainly felt his wrath more times than she cared to remember. But watching him sitting beside Nottingham, as if they were old chums, and look down his nose at the old man, made her blood boil. It was all she could do not to whip loose a fistful of arrows and dispatch both men.

  “Mount up!” called Nottingham, adjusting his coif over his flow of raven hair.

  His soldiers complied, and Mariel looked on helplessly. When was Robert going to make his move? Or would he allow the whole of the woods to catch fire and perish before he finally decided to intervene? His instructions had been clear: wait until he told her to come down from the tree. But who was going to console the old man who had been so kind as to help her? Who was going to help him move his belongings farther from the fire so they didn’t also catch flame? For they were at great danger of igniting with a stray spark. Where was he going to go? How could she sit still and wait for Robert when she knew not when he was going to act?

  They had done nothing while Nottingham and Crawford terrorized an old man, stooped with age and grieving over the loss of his woman. She hated her father. And she hated Nottingham, too.

  As soon as the entourage turned to leave, she searched for Robert and found him in a tree. He was looking at her instead of at Nottingham or the old man. She couldn’t read him, for he wore his mask again. But she knew he scrutinized her. And she knew from his posture he was tense, like a coil being held closed, about to snap open.

  She looked back at the old man, at Nottingham and her father lumbering down the road, as if returning from a successful hunt, then glanced back at Robert again. Except Robert had vanished. She turned her head in each direction, searching amongst the trees, but couldn’t find him. And then in a swoop of ropes, Robert and John, hooded in their dark green masks, swung down from the branches to block Nottingham and Ayr’s path.

  “Good day, fine gentlemen!” Robert boomed, landing and skipping to a halt. “And a better day still when you hand over that hefty purse at your hip!”

  Nottingham’s face tightened and Ayr reached for his sword, drawing it free. Of course. Her father only spoke with his steel.

  “You rabble…” Nottingham said. “How in the hell did you and your greedy buzzards find me again so soon?”

  “We’ve eyes throughout the forest, man,” Robert said.

  “Sadly for you, after yesterday’s confrontation, I travel with an armed contingent today.”

  “Ah, but you see? You still haven’t learned anything of import. Remember? No terrorizing of innocents?”

  “And you’re still stuck in your ideals. When one lives on another’s land and uses his resources, they owe in rents.”

  “Ah yes, my good man, but when you, the master in charge, make it impossible for any man to succeed in your demands, you, sire, are a tyrant. King Richard was never bothered by this man, keeping to himself in a woodsman’s cottage. And therefore, you will hand over your ill-gotten coin, taken out of the very mouths of starving babes and desperate mums and old, crippled men, and peasants with their pregnant wives, and then you will go on your way. And do try not to accidentally harm anyone else along your journey. I know it may be difficult for you.”

  “Such cheek…” Nottingham said. “Too bad it’s not as amusing as you intend it to be.”

  “No. It’s a truth,” Robert said. “Last chance, man, to comply. The charities are ever thin with the many patrons you send to their doorsteps. Don’t make me unburden you. For you know I will. Time and again, I best you.”

  “Let’s end this ridiculous waste of time,” Crawford said to Nottingham.

  “Agreed,” de Wendenal said. “Men? Dispatch them and let’s be on our way.”

  The audacity. Mariel scowled. Not that she felt Nottingham was worthy of any respect, but her father felt it his place to make the demand to Nottingham on his own territory. And yet, despite the pointless conversation between Robert and Nottingham that she knew full well was only customary preamble to a skirmish, the old man had sunk back to his knees while the flames lapped over the thatching of his home, heat emanating even to where Mariel still sat perched. His mournful cries squeezed her heart and his agony compelled her.

  She turned back to the face-off just as six soldiers jangled forth. Except two more men, Will and Alan, she deduced, also decked in dark green the color of the pine needles and hooded to hide their faces, swung from the trees side by side, dragging a rope in each hand that draped around the group of soldiers. Then, still swinging from their own ropes, they looped in opposite circles so that they switched sides, winding the rope around Nottingham’s men as they sailed back to lower branches on their respective trees.

  “Why you… What is the meaning of this?” thundered Nottingham, lunging forward as the soldiers were cinched together. They toppled from their horses, which scattered away. Robert and Jonathan whipped loose three arrows by the fletching, nocking them in succession, and turned to aim at the other soldiers who came forth.

  Letting them sail, most were used as a warning and two of them pierced the soldiers’ cloaks, pinning them to the nearest tree. And yet true to Robert’s philosophy, no one was injured.

  And then an arrow lodged in Robert’s arm. Mariel held in a strangled cry, for fear of giving herself away. Robert winced and grunted with pain, but still managed to return an arrow to the soldier behind Nottingham. It pierced the joint of the soldier’s chain mail in his neck. Nottingham twisted in his saddle, attempting to steer his mount out of the confusion.

  Crawford lifted his sword, kicking his mount forward to bring it down on Robert. Without thought, Mariel descended the tree, one b
ranch at a time, careful not to jostle loose her quiver upon her hip and send her only means of weaponry to the ground. She watched the skirmish as she slid against the trunk, her bow in hand, but John met her father’s threat by throwing up his quarterstaff to deflect the blow meant for Robert.

  Robert grinned a devilish smirk. “Oh, William. We meant you no harm, but alas, you’ve drawn blood and now you must pay.”

  The other soldiers were already cantering forth when Mariel, landing on the forest floor behind her tree trunk, noticed David ease himself from under the woven tarp of forest undergrowth. He crept up behind the soldiers who sat unaware of his presence, then in succession, slapped their mounts with the flat of his sword. The animals spooked, whinnied, reared, and bolted, taking their riders with them, except for one who tumbled off. The old man watched in horror, and Mariel ran to his side as he cowered beneath her, as if she and Robert’s men were bent on robbing him of the very shirt on his back.

  She took his hand.

  “Rise up. You have nothing to fear from these men,” she said.

  He stared at her, and she glanced at Robert, who was no longer grinning but watching her with alarm. His anger at her presence was palpable. She finally stopped to consider what she’d done. Nottingham was rounding on her, as was her father, both ignoring the soldier who had tumbled to the earth as their sights narrowed on her. Her blood drained away. Her father’s eyes were narrowing on her with both disbelief and rage. He would see her punished and returned to Castle Ayr, and she would never see Robert again.

  The fear in Robert’s eyes was heavy, and Mariel instantly regretted revealing herself. But it was too late to hide. Her father kicked his horse forth, abandoning his altercation with John’s quarterstaff, fury settling on his brow.

  “Mariel, ye little bitch. I’ll have yer head… Finally,” he snarled.