Falconer's Prey

by April Hill

  The Falconer’s Prey

  A Tale of Robin Hood

  By

  April Hill

  ©2013 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Hill, April

  The Falconer’s Prey

  eBook ISBN: 978–1–62750–2771

  Cover Design by edhgraphics.blogspot.com

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non–consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter the First

  Chapter the Second

  Chapter the Third

  Chapter the Fourth

  Chapter the Fifth

  Chapter the Sixth

  Chapter the Seventh

  Chapter the Eighth

  Chapter the Ninth

  Chapter the Tenth

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

  April Hill

  Moonchild, Chapter One

  Vengeance Creek, Chapter One

  Chapter the First

  In The King’s Forest of Sherwood, in Nottinghamshire. The First Day of March, In The Year of Our Lord 1193, and May God Preserve King Richard!

  The bitter cold and the previous night’s rainstorm had left every branch in the forest encrusted with a sheer coat of silvery ice that glistened like ropes of diamonds overhead, but Alice and Arthur were both too cold and too travel–weary to pay notice to the beauty. As they pressed deeper and deeper into the forest, leading their exhausted horses through the tangled undergrowth that slowed their every step, Alice pushed her way through the frozen brush with bare hands, her face smarting as yet another stray branch slashed across her cheek and tore at her wet clothing like shards of broken glass. It was difficult to believe that spring was but weeks away.

  “It isn’t far, now,” Arthur promised, holding back the brambles with his arm as Alice struggled to free herself from the snarled, ice–covered vines that entrapped her skirts. “The camp must be but a short distance away, now. We’ll see their fires at any moment, Mistress.”

  Alice sighed, reaching to touch the boy’s cold cheek. “Aye, Arthur,” she said fondly, “but pray worry less about me and more for yourself. You’ve not slept since yesterday, and you’re near–frozen to the very bone after last night’s dunking. Besides, dear friend, I’m dressed a good deal more warmly than you. I fear it will be you who turns to a pillar of frost far sooner than I. Still, unless my eyes fail me, I believe I do see someone’s fire, just there! Do you see it?” She pointed ahead to a spot between two large trees where a thin wisp of gray smoke furled above a small fire pit cut into the hard ground.

  Arthur broke into the first smile she had seen on his face since they fled the Abbey of St. Mary’s a day and a half ago. “We’ve found them, Mistress! It’s Robin Hood’s camp, I’m certain of it! We will be safe here. Come, hurry now!” He tightened his grip on the heavy bundle he’d insisted upon carrying since they’d made good her escape and dashed through the trees with a joyous cry.

  Without warning and in almost total silence, an arrow flashed between them and thudded deep into a tree trunk, directly next to Arthur’s ear.

  “Halt where ye stand or die there!” a voice thundered, and Arthur stopped in his tracks, frozen now not only by his wet garments and the piercing cold, but by fear. “Who goes?” the voice roared again. “Your name, and purpose here, and make an answer quickly if ye’ve a mind to take another breath!”

  “It’s all right, Lady!” Arthur whispered. “I know this man. He is called Bri’n the Blacksmith – of Robin’s camp!” He waved nervously in the direction of the unseen archer. “It is Arthur Postelwaite, of Wickham Village, here!” he called, his youthful voice sounding a bit strangled. “And with me is Mistress Alice Johnstone, escaped last night from the accursed Abbey at St. Mary’s and in dire need of shelter! We come in peace, asking nothing more than a warm fire and to aid noble Robin Hood in the struggle for –”

  “Shut yer damned silly mouth, Arthur,” the voice ordered, more softly now. “And come forward. Bring the girl, if ye must, but move yer blasted ass while you’re about it! We’ve all made enough noise here to wake the dead saints!”

  “Yes, sir!” Arthur took Alice’s hand in his and moved silently into the clearing, while Alice watched warily as the man who’d accosted them so rudely stepped from behind a tree. He was perhaps the tallest man she had even seen, grizzled with age and heavy–set, but he strode toward them with surprising agility, his gait lithe and quick. As he came nearer, he slipped an arrow back into the leather quiver across his back and paused long enough to bend down and slide a horn–handled long–dirk into the top of his boot. The man’s gray–white beard was frosted with ice and he wore a jerkin and hood of tattered leather, with only a flimsy gray blanket around his broad shoulders against the cold.

  He cuffed Arthur’s arm in a bruising but obviously friendly manner. “Well, now, boy, so it’s a nun ye’ve stolen for yourself, is it?” He gave Alice a quick glance. “Aye, and comely one she is, at that!” He clapped the boy on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Ye surprise me, sprout! I’d a’ never thought ye had it in ye! Here’s a wench to warm a man’s cockles, for sure!”

  Arthur blushed so violently his embarrassment could be seen even in the dim light of the forest. “Mistress Alice is not,” he stammered. “She’s a fine lady, and – ”

  Bri’n the Blacksmith towered over them, glaring down at Alice with suspicion. “Fine lady, is it, now? Well, then, let us see if this fine lady is armed.” He threw back Alice’s cloak and thrust one large, sooty hand inside, patting her about the waist and hips through the thick layers of her clothing.

  Alice drew back in revulsion and threw off her hood. Her hair was the color of amber, but damp and tangled, and her scratched cheeks were dirty, burned red with the cold. “Yes, sir, despite my present circumstances, I am a gentlewoman born and do not appreciate being treated as a – ”

  The burly blacksmith grinned. “And what was that, now, that ye’d like not to be treated as?” He winked, his every move mocking her arrogant tone. When he put both hands on her shoulders and whirled her around to complete a similar search of her rear quarters, Alice’s temper finally erupted.

  “Take your filthy hands from me, you stinking oaf!” she cried, slapping his hands away. When the man continued to smile in the same annoying manner, Alice reached up and slapped his face as hard as her small hand would permit. Without a moment’s hesitation, the giant grabbed her around the waist and swept her off her feet.

  Arthur dropped the horses’ reins and hurried forward to tug at the blacksmith’s sleeve. “I beg you!” he cried, “Mistress Alice is a friend!”

  The blacksmith pushed the boy aside. “Yer friend has bad manners,” he said simply. “And ye’re in for a pack o’ trouble yerself, bringin’ this ’un here without Robin’s leave! Will’s likely to have yer hide, and that’s a fact!” Then, with Alice tucked beneath his great, hairy arm like a sack of onions, h
e put one giant foot up on a fallen log and threw her across his sinewy thigh. Seconds later, while Alice was still looking desperately around the clearing for help and shrieking with outrage, the giant tossed her skirts up and searched beneath them thoroughly before planting a half–dozen rapid, painful smacks on her backside with his huge, callused palm.

  “Stop it!” she cried. She threw her hands back in defense, but the giant had apparently finished the lesson he had meant to impart and deposited her back on her feet on the deep cushion of icy leaves that covered the forest floor. Alice opened her mouth to shout a curse at him, but the blacksmith thrust one grimy finger in her face and shook his shaggy head.

  “Arthur here claims ye as a friend, Mistress,” he growled, “or I’d a’ taken the flesh off yer ass for striking me like ye did. Ye’d best hold your tongue now, or it’ll go considerable worse for ye than a lady like yourself will like!”

  Alice touched her bottom, winced in pain at the touch, and wisely –– for once –– held her tongue.

  The blacksmith knelt down and gently inspected the bruised fetlock area and hoof of the limping horse. “I’ll tend yer animals. This one’s in need of a poultice and a good rest. Come along, boy. Robin’s not in camp, but we’ll take yer friend here to Will Fletcher. He’ll decide what’s to be done with her – and with ye!”

  Arthur pulled Alice away before she could bring any more trouble down upon their heads and together they followed the aging colossus as he strode before them through the woods and into a larger clearing. Alice glanced up into the highest branches of a towering oak tree where a group of men were constructing a series of crude platforms among the great tree’s sturdier limbs. The blacksmith shouted up to a tall man who appeared to be in charge–the man called Will Fletcher, presumably.

  “’T is Arthur here, Will! Just come back through the wood with no notice. I nearly put an arrow in his bleedin’ fool chest! And he’s brung with ’im a female – a lady, says she, although she’s been no proper lady to me!”

  The man in the tree shook his head, obviously annoyed at the interruption. “Aye, Bri’n! I’ll be there shortly,” Fletcher called down. “Deliver the girl in my hut and take Arthur with you. Arthur, my lad, it appears you’ll require a fresh reminder of Robin’s order, which I’m quite sure Bri’n will now see to – perhaps not cheerfully, but with his usual strength of purpose.”

  Arthur’s thin shoulders slumped, but he followed obediently as the blacksmith took Alice’s arm and pulled her along behind him to a crude wooden dwelling at the far edge of the clearing. He parted a shabby burlap curtain and pointed to a small barrel in the far corner. “Sit yerself there and stay put!” he ordered. “You, boy!” he growled at Arthur. “Come along with me. We’ve a hard matter to attend to, me and you, so we’d best get it done and over with.”

  Arthur gulped nervously at what had been said, but nodded a quick goodbye to Alice and followed the blacksmith outside again into the clearing.

  Alone finally, Alice glanced around the freezing hut noting that what furniture the dismal hovel contained had been fabricated from beer kegs like the one she was sitting on. Someone had hammered together two small barrels and a number of rough planks to make a long, narrow table and there was a narrow bed built in a similar, makeshift manner. The bed’s lumpy straw mattress was covered in the same rough burlap as the curtain. If it were true, as the blacksmith had suggested, that Will Fletcher was one of the famed Robin Hood’s important lieutenants, the man was quite obviously not being made wealthy in his position.

  She waited for nearly a half an hour before the torn curtain that formed a doorway was thrown back and the man she had seen working in the trees entered. He was tall, with broad shoulders and muscled arms that spoke of hard work, but his strong hands were slender and well formed. His beard was short and neatly trimmed and his sand–colored hair somewhat long, tied at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. In the dim light, Alice could see that Will Fletcher’s eyes were a smoky gray in color and on either side of his neck almost hidden beneath his collar, he bore two thin, parallel scars. He walked with a very slight limp, as if his right leg bothered him after a long ride, perhaps.

  He sat down on the end of the long table and regarded her curiously. “I bid you good day, Mistress. May I inquire – ”

  “I would beg to differ, sir,” Alice interrupted icily. “It has not been a good day thus far, but a most disagreeable one. As an innocent wanderer in need of shelter, I had expected a more congenial welcome to Robin Hood’s camp.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Yes, I heard of your... your unfortunate welcome. I’m sorry for that, but I must now ask your purpose here. I’ve talked with young Arthur and he tells me you’ve fled the Abbey at St. Mary’s. While I can certainly understand why you would be eager to leave such a place, I’m curious as to what would bring a refined, well–bred lady as yourself into our rough and humble hideaway?”

  Alice stood up and self–consciously brushed the stray bits of dead leaves from her cloak and skirt. “I detect a note of derision in your question, sir, or perhaps suspicion? In any case, I find your tone and your manner insolent. My reasons for coming here were explained to your boorish sentry upon our arrival and have hardly changed in the last hour. I seek nothing more than the very poor hospitality offered by this encampment and even that for a very short time – until I’m able to make arrangements to travel south to London. That is where Arthur and I are bound.”

  “Arthur also tells me that you are in some way connected to Henry Burden.”

  Alice paused, silently cursing Arthur’s wagging tongue. “Lord Burden is my uncle, older brother to my dead mother. His estate is in Lincolnshire, just beyond the river.” It had not escaped Alice’s notice that Fletcher’s manner had changed noticeably when Uncle Henry’s name was mentioned.

  “Yes,” Fletcher said quietly. “We know Burden well. He’s a good man. What was a niece of Henry Burden doing at a place like St. Mary’s?”

  Alice scowled. “My sojourn there was not of my own choosing, I can assure you. Upon my father’s death, the hag he’d chosen as a second wife placed me in the adjoining convent school. To rot, presumably.”

  He chuckled and looked her over more carefully. “Aye, from the look of you, let alone the sound of you, I warrant you’d have made a rather poor nun. When did your mother die?”

  “When I was twelve.”

  “And you’ve been at St. Mary’s Abbey all this time?” he asked, obviously startled.

  She flushed. “Perhaps I am not the elderly crone your question suggests, Mister Fletcher. I am not quite twenty–six years old, and despite the wishes of my viper of a stepmother, I steadfastly refused to be coerced into taking my final vows. Over the years, I have made a number of escapes, during some of which I managed to remain at large for several months at a time – with Uncle Henry’s help. The first of my escapes was just four days after my arrival there,” she boasted. “It took them three weeks to find and return me.”

  Will Fletcher threw his handsome head back and laughed. “I’ll wager your bottom paid a heavy price for leading them that merry chase! It’s rumored the Abbess at St. Mary’s wields a wicked birch rod and enjoys the strenuous use of it the way many women enjoy a rowdy tumble in bed. It’s said she thinks nothing at all of flogging a disobedient novice ’til the blood flows.”

  Alice nodded in grim agreement. “I promise you, sir, that it is no idle rumor, although my own experience is that she is adept with a thick wooden paddle as well.” She blushed. “Or so I have heard.” She pointed through the doorway. “And my encounter with that ill–kempt Goliath of yours has convinced me that beating persons smaller than one’s self is not an uncommon practice in this place, either.”

  Fletcher smiled. “Ah, you’re speaking of Bri’n, our able blacksmith. Yes, I witnessed, from a distance, of course, your –uh –unfortunate misunderstanding. I’m confident he meant you no real harm, but our customarily gentle Bri’n tolerates no nonsen
se when protecting this camp and in doing so, he sometimes acts a bit hastily – and roughly, I’m afraid. He’s a fine, honest old fellow, though, as strong and stout as Little John himself and you’ll find no better man in a fight anywhere in England. But he does know how to swat an uncooperative bottom when it’s required – as you have just learned. Among our own unwed young people, he’s regarded as the camp’s elder schoolmaster. There’s a good many impudent rumps in camp that have been warmed by his hand and then not sat at supper for two nights or more. You’ll not want to cross the good blacksmith while you’re with us, unless you’ve a taste for hot coals on your backside. At the moment, poor Arthur is about to learn that lesson himself.”

  “Arthur!” she cried.

  “Yes. I’m afraid young Arthur is in Bri’n’s smithy as we speak, bent over an anvil, preparing to suffer what will no doubt be a considerably worse hiding than your own very brief paddling, Mistress.”

  “But why?” she protested angrily, “He’s done nothing but – ”

  “What he did,” Fletcher interrupted, “was to bring a stranger here without leave. The two of you might well have been followed from Nottingham, bringing the Sheriff’s men down upon us.”

  “But we weren’t followed,” she insisted. “Please, don’t –”

  He shook his head firmly. “Arthur knew very well the risk he was taking and the danger. He is not unaware of the penalty for such foolish bravado. He accepted the risk because of his tender feelings for you, no doubt. Bri’n tells me he follows you about like a lovesick puppy. In any case, he’ll take this thrashing because he’s earned it and then be the wiser for it.”

  Suddenly, the quiet of the glen was disturbed by a series of short, strangled yelps coming from a small hovel to their left. Fletcher cocked an ear in the direction of the shrieks, smiling a bit sadly. “I believe that would be young Arthur, now – attempting to spare you his howls of pain, I suspect.”