The Archer's Daughter (16 page)

Lord Lancaster’s face shifted into a splotchy mix of ashen and red hues. “Do not speak of such—”

“You did not expect the King to happen upon your charter meeting. Hundreds upon hundreds of innocents died to save your treacherous skin. I have gained audience with the King later this eve. I’m sure he would find your actions interesting.”

Lord Lancaster pursed his lips. His eyes jetted over Owen’s face.

Owen held firm in his accusations. “If you wish to live, you will heed my words. A courrier is set to deliver evidence against you to His Majesty, unless you agree to my terms. I am to leave London this very night. Three separate copies of your treason have been delivered to secret locations, and if you ever try to find me or seek retribution against me, my contacts are under strict orders to deliver their package. Do not think you will be able to act in secrecy, for my informants know you well. You will be sought out, and I cannot guarantee your safety. Have I made myself clear to you, Father?”

Lord Lancaster sputtered before finding his words. “I do not understand these insinuations against me, especially from my own son. One would expect more from the son of the Captain of the Guard. I gave everything to you — a bastard! I do not know why you have fabricated these lies! What do you seek to gain by this?”

“Freedom.”

Cate gasped for
a breath.

The air trapped in her lungs burned, unable to be expelled. Nightmarish visions clouded her thoughts, and she violently strained against them. She wanted nothing more than to lash out, but try as she might, she couldn’t gather the strength needed to scream out her pain.

She slipped along the threads of oblivion and a rising fog. Murmurs filled the space between. Her body jolted involuntarily. Faces — blurred figures — muddled her consciousness. The shock of cold water splattered across her face, and she choked, unable to swallow the heavenly liquid.

“Easy now…” a voice soothed.

Cate’s eyelids fluttered. She had heard that sound before, its smooth, womanly tone comforting her at once.

“Is she coming ’round?”

“Not just yet,” the woman answered. “Cate, can you open your eyes?”

A warmth enveloped her hand and squeezed. “I am here for you, Cate. I am here.”

Owen
.

Death had its advantages.

Cate inhaled deeply, attempting to recollect his woodsy scent from the depths of her memory. Her heart quickened when a hand brushed along her cheek.

“I need you to come back now, Cate.”

“What hell is this?” She stumbled over the words, barely able to get out a whisper.

“Not hell… not yet.”

“I hanged today.”

“You chose to
live
today.”

That voice. The washerwoman?

Consciousness flooded her. Her time spent in the dank depths of the prison grabbed at her, and Cate attempted to rise. She remembered praying — asking God if she should heed the words of the mysterious washerwoman and ingest the tincture of opium, or allow herself to hang for her crimes. Her last memory before waking with a neverending pounding in her head was downing the bitter liquid from the small vial and focusing on a pair of piercing green eyes.

Arms encircled her as Cate struggled against her own movements. Her body wouldn’t listen and involuntarily shook.

“What is happening?” a concerned voice asked.

“The laudanum is leaving her system.”

“Halt the wagon.”

By God in heaven it was comforting to hear him speak. Cate feared it would never reach her ears again. It was Owen, in the flesh, and not some cruel version of her own personal hell. He was truly with her, she was alive… and in his arms.

Open your eyes, Cate.
She willed her body to obey.
Cate
!

Her eyes opened. Then squinted shut. The sun — the bright, magnificent sun — etched flashes and spots against the darkness of clamped eyelids. She blinked away the few spots of wet forming in the corners of her eyes and took in her surroundings. Cate was propped slightly against a warm body in the back of a wagon, which reeked of death and dirt. Several people she didn’t know stared back at her expectantly.

“Water, hand me the water.” A full bladder was thrust into Owen’s awaiting hand, and he pressed the spout to Cate’s lips, allowing her to drink at her own pace. When she finished, he asked, “What else can I do for you?”

“A bath would be lovely,” she lightheartedly quipped.

The wagon—its passengers—waiting patiently for her on the side of a deserted road, grew warm with compassion and love. Birds flitted overhead, darting in and out of the surrounding pine. A dunnock sang its sharp tune close by the front of the wagon, one she’d called to a thousand times before. A smile graced her cracked lips. Her dear, sweet Wallace, making his presence known.

“What grievous ransom did you forfeit to gain the help of Owen Grey?” she asked Wallace.

The Scot sat on the bench seat, cloaked in a tattered woolen cloak. He turned, twisting to see her. “’Twas the opposite, I fear,” he told her. “Ye would’ve hanged if it had been left up to me.”

“I couldn’t have executed the plan had it not been for his help. Your MacKenzie makes for a fine gravedigger. He gave orders as if he’d mastered the craft in years past, so I have been told. I see a new job in his future.”

“I thank you. I thank you all.” Cate’s eyes drifted to Owen’s. “You saved my life.”

“You saved mine, Cate. My life was nothing without you in it. I might be alive, but you taught me how to live.” Owen tenderly traced the curvature of her jaw with his thumb. His lips touched hers, gentle, warm, and forgiving. “And I want to spend the rest of my life doing this.”

“I’m hoping not in the back of a death wagon.” The washerwoman chuckled, bringing Cate back to the present.

“Cate, I would like to formally introduce you to my mother, Nel.” Owen beamed.

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Cate Archer, and under better circumstances.” Nel smiled as a mother would… comforting and full of unyielding love.

Wallace clicked his tongue, breaking the heavy silence. The wagon jolted forward. “Well, we aren’t going to get there by exchanging pleasantries,” he said.

Cate cleared her throat. “Where are we off to?”

Owen smirked, a glint of mischief sparking in his eyes. “Cate, my love, have you ever been to Manchester?”

“I have heard there is a handsome
viscount in Manchester with estates that rival those in London,” Cate teased.

“Yes,” Owen nodded. “With a bath so big it rivals the ocean. He would give his lady the stars, if she so wished it.”

Indeed.

~~~~

Cate crumpled the
parchment in her fist. The outcome was what she had expected, and she did not know why she had fooled herself into believing anything would have changed. She paced the foyer, the heels of her shoes clicking along the freshly polished floor with every step.

“What troubles you, my love?” Owen paused in passage.

“A courier.” Cate thrust the paper against his chest. “Pardoned. Every single one of those bastards.”

Taking the parchment from Cate’s twisted fingers, he smoothed the edges to read it. His eyes darted along the lines, and his lips pursed into a thin scowl line. “I gave fair warning this would happen.”

“All of those innocent people will never find their peace. There will be no justice for them.”

“So we will continue our goodwill, and we will send coin and food and supplies to those in need. The trade routes have long been established, and thanks to your people, the forest and villages are safe again.” Owen stepped closer to Cate and placed his hands on her shoulders. He massaged the knots forming along her muscles and squeezed. “You have done great things, Catherine Grey, and I aim to see it continued. Let us not let the fate of the damned keep us from doing what we know is right.”

Cate smiled up at her husband. She slid her arms around his middle, letting his warmth calm her insides. She breathed him in deeply, knowing she couldn’t take a single moment for granted. She had been blessed with a second chance at life — with the man she loved — and she would not see a moment wasted.

With every new sunrise, adventure awaited.

THE END

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Return to Me
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Return to Me

Chapter One

Warriors

Galhaven, Engel

Autumn

Covered in a thick blanket of darkness, Brynn was trapped between the snares of restless sleep and dreaming. Indistinct shouts bounced from wall to wall. The echoes of pounding hooves reverberated through her as horses raced through the courtyard. She searched the space around her for the cause, but found nothing. A horse shrieked in the distance, turning her dreams into a twisted nightmare. Fierce wind blew against her face, roaring as if the skies were to rain in hellish fury. Her older brothers barked orders to one another. Three black ravens circled the sky.

Searching the vast emptiness surrounding her, Brynn pawed the air. Desperate to find her brothers, she sought their frantic voices. Something was terribly wrong. She urged herself to move forward, but heavy wind gripped her shoulders, pinning her against the darkness. A strong gust violently shoved her away from the aberrant visions of her brothers.

Brynn fell to the balcony floor with a thud, which startled her from restless sleep. Gathering herself, she realized the terror was no dream. Men with torches ran beneath her balcony shouting commands. Servants chased after their masters, trying to keep pace.

Swollen drops of rain spattered across Brynn’s face. A storm approached. Could her father’s men be strapping down the area in preparation? No, there was far too much commotion below. A different kind of storm was brewing.

Making her way to the stairs, Brynn clutched her quilt tight around her chilled body. She reached the spiral stairwell and started her descent, one stone at a time. Brynn paused just as the entrance doors to Galhaven Manor flung open in furor. Brynn stepped back and tucked into the shadows. Armed guards burst through escorting four massive men. Brynn spotted her brothers, Michael and Marcus, at the center of the madness. Her betrothed, Julian, followed behind with a sword drawn. Her father, Bertram, waddled not far behind.

The strangers towered above those who confined them. From their sheer size, Brynn knew they outweighed and could easily outmaneuver any Engel in the manor. Underneath the grime, muscle, and leather was the unmistakable sight of pale yellow hair. As dirty and matted as it was, she knew who the intruders were.

Archaeans.

Archaeans in the
manor
.

Her stomach roiled, twisting and curling into tight knots as she fought to keep its contents down. She’d never actually seen an Archaean before, but legends of battles in centuries past flowed through her mind. Archaeans were fierce warriors from the north. They spoke no language any civilized citizen from Galhaven understood. Their only purpose was to spill the blood of their enemies — her people, the Engels. They were born and bred for it. There was no reasoning with them, no mercy. The warriors had come to kill them all, and her father allowed them into their home.

The fool
.

The people of Galhaven feared Archaeans, and for good reason. Villages caught between the borders had been all but abandoned over the years. The two realms never ceased to be at war.

An Archaean was arguing with her father, but she couldn’t make out the muffled words. One of the warriors — a tall beast clad in leather — pointed to the warrior who favored his injured arm. A crudely fashioned sling immobilized him from forearm to shoulder. The one speaking with her father was tall and broad — a truly wondrous sight. Never before had she seen such an abundance of restrained strength in just one man.

“Brynn! Why are you out of your chamber?” said a familiar voice from behind.

Brynn clutched her chest then the wall to keep from tumbling down the stairs. “By the gods, Magda — you gave me a fright!” She tugged on the nursemaid’s sleeve. “What’s happening?”

“I overheard Master Michael shouting about an alliance and your father must honor it or face being reported to the army commander.”

“Who are they?” Brynn eyed the men with fascination. There were only a handful of people in Galhaven with pale hair and light eyes — herself being one of them. No one ever mentioned her abnormalities — though they were blatant — but rather graciously spared her further humiliation over her years. Her father, Bertram, a wealthy nobleman and Lord of Galhaven, had only wanted sons. Strong, willing, and loyal sons. When his third wife gave birth to the fair-haired Brynn, he ordered the unwanted babe kept out of sight — if alive at all.

Bertram dreamt of wealth and higher nobility for his sons and expressed his feelings on the matter frequently. As three of the five sons perished — from battle, sickness, and an untimely accident — he’d come to realize his continued wealth very well might fall on his only daughter… the pale, quiet, repulsively towheaded, out of sight Brynn.

Because of her father’s hatred for her, Brynn knew she was different. Her spirit sang like no other.

Magda placed a palm on Brynn’s shoulder. “Warriors from the north. Archaeans.”

“But why are they here?” Archaeans had no business being in peaceful Galhaven, unless they were surrendering to the militia.

Magda seemed to have heard her thoughts. “They are free fighters and pledge allegiance to no man. I hear they serve under the command of Brockington, but that cannot be possible, since Brockington serves the militia.”

Brynn strained to listen to the argument.

“I must return you to your chamber,” whispered Magda as the altercation escalated. “With strange men in the manor, it is best we keep everyone safe in their rooms. Come.”

The nursemaid took Brynn by the hand and retreated upstairs. They both melted into the darkness.

Exhausted from the commotion and endless questions about Archaeans, Brynn dozed off to the muted sounds of disorder, ready to dream once more. Peaceful sleep didn’t come. Instead, her dreams were haunted by visions of warriors invading the entrance hall, their strange voices echoing in her thoughts between sleep and consciousness. The blended scents of smoke and rain, sweat and leather lingered in her nostrils, fueling her restless dreams.

In the wee hours of morning, Magda jolted Brynn from her dreams. Her voice was strained and stern — not a Magda Brynn easily recognized. “Your presence has been requested by your father. Get out of bed and dress. Quickly, now.”

Brynn rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What?”

Magda pulled the bed covers down. “You must hurry! Your father insists upon it.”

“Let me sleep, you daft woman.”

A light slap to each cheek pulled Brynn from her daze. “My girl, wake up
now
!” Magda nudged Brynn’s shoulder.

Brynn groaned in protest. Remnants of her fitful dreams played fresh in her memory. She reflected on the few rare moments of freedom spent with her brothers. They had played long and hard in a meadow with mock battles and silly games of capturing warring flags on horseback. It was a memory she recollected often — one she tried hard to hold on to, for soon after that joyous day the peace had been broken, treaties severed, and war declared.

Brynn rummaged through her wardrobe. She grabbed a worn shift, a simple skirt, and a belt to hold it all in place. The plain clothes smelled of horse sweat and hay but would serve well enough for whatever her father needed at such an hour. She made her way to the door, hopping on one foot while slipping a boot on the other.

Brynn rushed to the stairs to catch the nursemaid. “Magda, wait!” She blindly followed the old woman down two more sets of stairs and into the dark depths of the manor. The air — moist and humid — clung to her like a blanket. The strong smell of fouled dirt and mold stung the insides of her nostrils, making her eyes water.

As she turned the last corner, out of breath and damp with sweat, Brynn stumbled into Magda’s backside. Righting herself, Brynn peered around the nursemaid. In a dimly lit corner on a long wooden table lay one of the Archaean warriors. Another warrior sat in a rickety chair to his left, which threatened to give way to his size. Two more Archaeans leaned against a back wall, standing guard.

As Brynn entered the room, Bertram rose and motioned for her. A nervous twinge took root inside her belly.

“Michael tells me you have a steady hand,” said her father.

Brynn lowered her head. “Yes, my lord.” Panic washed over her.

“And you are knowledgeable with herbs and tinctures. Is this true?”

“Yes,” she replied, hesitant. “But only with animals. I have never—”

“Quiet. Come here.”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, obediently stepping forward and taking the basket of rags from Magda.

“This man is injured, and by the treaty of Suffolk, we must see to his medical needs.”

“I have never treated a man before, my lord.” A few medicinal tools rested on top of the linens in the basket. Brynn timidly took one and swallowed hard. “Are you sure you wish me to do this?”

“Do it
now
.”

Taking a deep breath, Brynn commanded her feet to move. She approached the man on the table. Her legs felt numb, as if they weren’t her own. Brynn wondered if the warrior in the chair could hear her heart’s loud thumping. She thought it might leap into his lap at any moment.

“More light?” she asked, setting the basket beside her patient.

Magda retrieved an oil lamp for her.

“Thank you.” Brynn surveyed the wound. A blood and mud-crusted rag covered the man’s shoulder. She touched the skin around it, testing for signs of pus and fever. He moaned under the pressure of her fingers when she set to work peeling away the layers of bandage. The rags fused together, heavily soiled with blood. She did her best to remove them gently, but as she worked at a particularly matted piece, the Archaean groaned in agony and spewed words in a language she couldn’t understand.

A tug on her shoulder jerked her from her task.

Startled, she turned to face the warrior behind her. “My apologies. I don’t mean to pain him, but the bandage… it must be removed. There is something—”

“An arrowhead.” The man glanced at her, his eyes flickering with curiosity. He took in her every inch, judging her and unraveling what little composure she had left.

Through grime and sweat covering his face, Brynn could clearly see his intrigue. He understood her babbling. He spoke her language, used her words. Brynn wasn’t at all expecting that from an Archaean.

Stay calm. Breathe.
“Will you tell your friend that I—”

“Brother,” the Archaean interrupted. “He is my brother.”

“Very well, would you tell your brother I need to remove the arrowhead? He will feel the pain, but at least...” Brynn’s voice quieted as the warrior’s eyes raked over her again. His appraisal burned her skin even in darkness. She wanted to see those eyes — see if they were like hers — but ghostly shadows obstructed her view.

The man muttered a few words to his brother, clasping his hand. “He is ready.”

Brynn released a breath between pursed lips and dipped a clean rag into a water bowl. Pressing the cloth against the wound, she squeezed out the water until the bloodied bandage gave way. She struggled with the bulkiness of his muscular build, desperate not to cause more damage as she finagled the cloth from his underarm and shoulder. Somewhere in the back of her mind emerged the realization she had just touched a man for the first time. It wasn’t at all what she had expected.

Brynn leaned close, taking a good look at the wound. She closed her eyes and turned away in haste, breathing slowly to keep from vomiting. Deep in the muscle were the shattered shards of an arrow tip. The wound oozed pus. The slightest pressure sent the viscous yellow liquid spurting out from the smallest of cracks. The permeating stench caused even the warrior beside her to cover his nose.

“How long has he been like this?” She turned her attention to the thick mass of brawn and muscle hovering nearby, her words infused with a tinge of anger and frustration. How anyone could let a wound get that grotesque without seeking proper care was beyond belief. The man was lucky he hadn’t yet lost his arm.

“We have been riding for five days, perhaps six.”

Brynn shook her head. Any fear she held of these men vanished. Every word seeped with disapproval. “He is severely damaged. He will need close attention for days. This infection is in his blood, and he may yet lose his arm. I do not know if I can mend this. He is a mess.”