The Archer's Daughter

by Melissa MacKinnon

  The Archer’s Daughter

  by Melissa MacKinnon

  Published by esKape Press

  www.eskapepress.com

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2015 Melissa MacKinnon

  ISBN-10: 1940695643

  ISBN-13: 9781940695648

  Cover Art Design by For the Muse Design

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and/or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only and not an implied endorsement.

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  Dedication

  For Mr. Ray Kelly — Thank you for teaching me how to find the joy in words, and for giving them wings.

  In June of 1381, the peasants of England revolted against their King and country, effectively storming London and its surrounding counties. While the focus of the clash was due to unfair taxes and labor laws, the skirmishes also brought to the front lines reforms such as fair rents and the abolition of serfdom. On June 14th, young King Richard agreed to meet the leaders of the revolt. During the negotiations between the Crown and the leaders of the peasant villages, noble forces overpowered the rebel army, capturing and executing its leaders. Others rose to take their place, fueling the dying fires of the peasant revolt against injustice. This is the fictionalized account of one such event of Cate Archer, daughter of William the Archer, who loved her father very much. She vowed she would not rest until she saw her father’s murder avenged and his killer brought to his knees.

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 1381

  Bedgebury Forest

  Kent, England

  Murdering wasn’t for the faint of heart.

  Cate Archer drew in a fervent breath, unable to calm her insides. She trusted her instincts without hesitation. The tingling sensation that sparked in her belly and quickly spread to her extremities — the breathtaking swirl of full-bodied titillation that consumed her with every draw of her bow — excited her beyond contestation.

  Blood coursed through her veins with every pump of her heart. The tree limb on which she perched swayed gently in the breeze, rocking her softly in its plush canopy. She briefly entertained the thought of a short nap, if only she had the time. Rebel informants had given word of a band of nobles traveling the access road through Bedgebury forest, and there was no better opportunity than the present to end their merciless lives. With a little luck, and a few well aimed arrows, the party would be dead before sundown. Swift justice for those murdered at the hands of the King, her beloved father included.

  Cate vowed she would not rest until the man who’d cut down her father saw the same fate. She took to the forest, paying particular attention to the access road cutting through the center of the trees. Any noble daring to pass would meet an early demise at the opposite end of her bow. There would be no tax collecting — nay, stealing — from her village.

  It was the wait that was the hardest. Waiting for the most opportune moment to strike, or listening for a telling faint sound on the wind — a misstep by a nervous horse, perhaps, who knew of Cate’s presence long before its rider. Fighting the urge to stretch from her uncompromising position in the tree, Cate focused on her surroundings, recollecting the lessons her father had taught her throughout her twenty-three years. She would not fail him now.

  Steady, straight, and true.

  Gripping the shaft of her arrow between her teeth, Cate pulled the dark locks from her face, securing them atop her head with a bit of twine. From across the canopy, the sweet song of a dunnock fluttered through the trees. Cate answered the mock call with a resounding squawk, silencing the song bird. The signal had been given. Her men were ready.

  Within moments, riders approached, edging closer to their deaths with every unsuspecting step. Three armed men circled a heavily laden man at the core of the traveling party. Bags weighted with goods and coins jingled as the rider adjusted himself in the saddle.

  A tax collector. He would be the first to die.

  After nocking her arrow, Cate silently drew her bow. One step, two steps closer and she would have a clear shot at the man’s heart. Holding her breath, she waited. Then, the bow string slipped from her fingers, whooshing past her cheek. It plunged deep into the chest of her target, and she cracked a smile.

  She loaded her second arrow. The riders below scrambled in erratic circles, shouting orders and drawing weapons, readying to battle an enemy they could not see. Cate snickered, likening them to a disturbed ant hill. Chaotic disruption… how it thrilled her. The bow string snapped between the pads of her fingers, propelling the arrow toward her next target — a fat, balding man who could not decide whether he wanted on or off his mount. He fumbled in the saddle, unsure of his position in the fray. At impact, her second victim keeled to the side and fell motionless to the earthen floor.

  Her men — her rebellious brothers-in-arms — stormed from all angles, cutting off all means of escape for the last two poor souls still fighting for life. Their gallant attempt to battle until the bitter end brought a pang of guilt to her gut, albeit brief.

  As the third guard fell prey to her men, Cate breathed a heavy sigh. “Hold,” she called from the trees. She slung her bow across her back then leapt from limb to limb, descending from the tree with the grace and finesse of a woodland creature.

  Boots to the ground, she stood statuesque and imposing, the soft hairs of her fur-lined armor fluttering with the breeze. Pulling a small dagger from her side, Cate approached the remaining guard.

  The bloodied man, held firm by two burly monstrosities of leather and sweat, watched her approach with wary eyes. “A name. That is all I ask. Give me the name of the man who executed William the Archer of Kent, and I will spare your life, you shall have my word.”

  The man tugged against the restraint. “And what is that worth… the word of a woman?” He spat at her feet.

  “I grow weary of this hunt. A name.” She flashed the blade, rubbing the sharpened edge with her thumb.

  “I am but a hired guard. I know naught of this executioner you speak of. Perhaps you should converse with the King. I’m sure he would be delighted to add your head to those residing on London Bridge. Perhaps next to this William of yours, eh?”

  She clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the hilt of the dagger she palmed.

  “Oh, did that cut to the quick, little girl? Does that make you want to hurt me?” The guard let out a haughty laugh.

  She smiled, her lips curling to one side. “Very much.” He taunted her, even with the threat of death rapidly approaching. She took a step toward the brute then brought her knee up between the man’s legs, doubling him over in a fit of blubbering and forced gasps. The groaning guard sunk to his knees. Her attention turned to her men. “Colin. Fetch the tax collector�
�s sack.”

  Releasing his hold on the guard, Colin hustled to the body of the tax collector and rummaged beneath the man’s bloodied cloak. Upon finding the goods, he tossed the pouch to Cate.

  She judged its monetary value by the weight. Unjust taxes, most likely taken from those already too poor to pay. Families could barely make it through the harsh winters as it was, and without what little coin they had saved… many would surely starve. “Redistribute this.” Cate tossed the pouch back to Colin, who nodded in agreement. “Wallace,” she addressed another member of her ruffians, “kindly dispatch the exciseman of his head, will you?”

  Wallace, a robust man with wild hair and hellish eyes, drew his sword but hesitated with his approach, heaving a sigh. “Cate, I love ye as if ye were me own bairn. I bounced ye on my knee and taught ye to fish the streams. I know walls won’t hold ye after what’s been done to yer da, but I promised him I would see to ye. Even if that means tromping ’round the brush. Do ye not think this is going a wee bit too far?” His Scottish brogue grew thick with concern when his eyes met hers.

  “How can you even question it, Wallace? Your own kin hung from the gallows… do you not seek vengeance? I will not sit idly by while these nobles… these traitors… seek to slaughter the rest of us. This is my home. I will not allow it!”

  Wallace scowled but did as Cate asked, removing head from neck in one fell swoop. “What would ye have me do with it, my Cate?” he asked, taking up the head by the hair, lifting it from the blood-sodden ground.

  “It is but a gift for our dear, sweet king. Our new friend must deliver it post haste.”

  The men made quick work of tying the guard to a horse. The tax collector’s severed head was secured safely between the guard’s hands in an unsuspecting sack. In a tangled mess of leather, sweat, and flesh, the guard was set loose to return to London with Cate’s gift.

  “Give His Majesty my best regards.” She checked the tightness of the knots, making sure the guard wouldn’t be able to free himself.

  “And from whom shall I say this gift is from?”

  “Cate, the Archer’s daughter.”

  ~~~~

  “My deepest apologies. I do not know what went wrong,” the soldier sputtered, surrounded by the group of fellow guardsmen.

  Robert Grey, Earl of Lancaster and Captain of the Guard, paced behind a desk towering with parchment and books. From beneath its cluttered surface, he retrieved a soiled sack. “This happened!” He plopped the sack amongst the papers, setting them to flight.

  A reserved gasp spread through the room as the opening of the sack fell slack, revealing the sunken face of Henry de Burke, the latest tax collector to lose his head at the hands of the peasant rebels scattered throughout the English countryside.

  Robert slammed his fist against the surface of the desk. “What if word of this were to reach the King?” His jaw clenched. “I cannot understand why these peasants have not yet been silenced.” Robert turned toward one of his men standing near the center of the room to address him. “You assured me the issue had been taken care of!”

  “Yes, Captain. We thought it was under control, but more bands of peasants rise up as soon as we have captured the last.”

  “They have weapons and skill. Do you think this was done with a pitchfork?” Robert casually waved a hand in the direction of Henry de Burke’s head.

  “There is one group who has been particularly hard to quell. We’ve sent numerous guardsmen to flush them out, but they hide in Bedgebury forest. They prefer to seek out the Guard, Lord Lancaster, and those they protect. We are hard pressed to have the advantage. Eleven men have been killed in a fortnight.” The guardsman turned to his Captain. “We are losing.”

  Robert closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with rigid fingers. “Word of this does not leave the room. If King Richard were to learn of your… failure, our heads would be rotting in the Thames alongside the rebel leaders.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  Robert’s men looked to him for guidance. Clearly, a new plan was needed. “Put a bounty on the heads of all rebel leaders still in resistance. I do not care of the amount. It will not be paid anyhow. Not so much as to seem… desperate, but enough to be irresistible to the scum of this city. Thomas…” Robert addressed a man seated near the back of the small corner room used as headquarters for the Guard. “Gather the King’s retinue. Bring me Harrison, Maddock, and Owen, and make haste.”

  Thomas rose. “Yes, Captain. Erm…” He opened his mouth to continue, but paused before the words left his lips.

  “What is it, Thomas?” Robert snapped.

  “’Tis just, His Majesty gave Owen a royal pardon last month as requested, Captain, after the peasant revolt. His time in service is over, and he has returned to his estates in Banebridge.”

  Crossing the room, Robert stopped short in front of Thomas. “I do not care if you have to go to hell to fetch him… bring me my son!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cate could not believe her luck. Good fortune shined upon her, and on a hunting trip, no less. She’d set out for a morning check of her snares — empty, as of late — and stumbled upon a monstrous fallow buck. If she managed to take it down, it would ease the hunger pangs of the people in her village of Hawkhurst, what was left of them. Ravaged by the black death no more than some forty years prior, the many villages of Kent had yet to recover. And now, by order of the King, the people had been left to die in squalor — nearly a thousand less in only a month’s time. And for what? Tactless attempts to enforce collection of taxes so high no honest man could pay, all to fund a war founded on greed.

  A grunt in the bush brought her back to the task at hand. Food. Her stomach grumbled at the mere notion of a hot meal. She’d grown weary of her spotty diet of berries and vermin. Venison would be a welcome treat. She’d noticed her draw arm growing weary while hunting excisemen. The accompanying tremor could cost her her life.

  Taking shelter behind a moss-covered tree, Cate readied her bow. She blurted out a guttural bleat, attracting the buck to bring him in closer. It crashed through the thicket, answering her call. Taking in a deep breath, she rounded the tree trunk to take aim.

  Then abruptly retreated.

  Guards approached. Honest to God genuine guards, brandishing swords and gleaming armor atop enormous beasts donning the royal colors. The King’s Guard. Cate’s heart fluttered. Her chance to make an impact to her father’s cause had finally arrived. She’d briefly counted four but was sure there had to be more. Guards never traveled in less than six to a scouting party. These men, these nobles, served the King directly. One of them could have been responsible for her father’s death, making them the perfect target. If she could take to the trees, she could kill at least four.

  But she was alone, a foolish mistake on her part. She should have allowed Colin to accompany her, but the enemy hadn’t stepped foot in her forest in nearly a week. She needed him to scout for those responsible, not check rodent traps. Sliding to her stomach, Cate slithered away from the tree and into the cover of the brush. She would find a vantage point further up the road and wait to strike.

  Stowing her bow and quiver across her back, Cate scaled a tree with a full canopy, fading into its lush colors. She brushed her brow with her sleeve, wiping away the gathered beads of sweat. Moments seemed to drag on.

  There was entirely too much waiting in the murdering profession.

  Soon, horse sweat and leather tingled inside her nostrils. The guards were near. Cate whipped the bow from her shoulder and plucked an arrow from its sheath, nestling it at its rightful place against the bowstring. A heated energy flowed from deep within her, coursing through her veins to the tips of her fingers, begging her to release the tension on the string. She did not deny it.

  The arrow shot through the air, missing its intended destination by a hairsbreadth. Damn. She’d missed.

  “Arrow!” A warning was called.

  Her presence had been made known. Cate took a s
wift head count of her remaining arrows. Five. Perfect for taking down a deer, but unfortunate against six armed guards. A brief chill of panic threatened to take root but she pushed it aside, willing herself to be strong. She owed it to her father. She must fight.

  From the sounds echoing below, Cate believed the guards to be readying to fight, but from the sound of their confusion, they could not apprise from where she shot. The thick forest canopy was a welcome friend.

  She surveyed the area to her left. Several thick branches from a nearby tree overlapped the one she hid in. If she could get a shot off — and manage to hit someone this time — she could change locations before the men would be able to fire from below. Cate said a quick prayer, asking for the guards to be ill-equipped with weaponry, or shite shots with a bow.

  “Courage, Cate.” She turned to face her opponents.

  “There! Above!” A guard pointed in her direction, raising his bow to take aim.

  Cate redirected her aim to the right, firing at the telling guard. Time for a new plan.

  Run.

  An arrow hissed through the branches, and she lurched back, nearly unseated from her perch. Tree bark scraped her palms as she righted herself.

  “Do not harm the boy!” one guard shouted. “Hold!”

  “I am no boy!” Cate retaliated without first thinking.

  “A lass, then?”

  She silently chastised herself for her foolishness. “What else would I be, you dolt?”

  They thought her a child — a fantastic ruse with the potential of aiding in her escape.

  “Tell me then, girl, why have you attempted to end my life?”

  The men scattered to various points along the forest floor; some on foot, others on horseback. A plan was in formation, but Cate had yet to gain knowledge of it. She took a deep breath. Time to lie, Cate. Your life depends on it.