The Archer's Daughter (3 page)

They were closing in on her. Sinking to her knees, she snatched the hilt of the sword before falling to her back in a roll, narrowly missing the massive beast barreling by her. One more moment would have left her pummeled to death. The guard chasing her on horseback had nearly grabbed her from behind — too close.

Now armed and her men nearby, she stood a better chance of defeating the persistent guards. “Wallace, tell Colin to take up his bow and aim for the riders!” she called out, taking charge of the precarious situation she found herself in. A guard on horseback with sword drawn steadily closed the gap between himself and Cate. She readied her own blade, prepared to fight.

“The Captain wants her alive!” another shouted at her soon-to-be attacker.

Instead of swinging his sword at her as Cate presumed he would, the guard threw himself from the saddle, heaving his massive frame atop her. Now pinned to the ground, she had no choice but to defend herself.

Wriggling beneath the man, Cate struggled to reaffirm her grip on the sword. In a twisted struggle of limbs, fists, and grunts, she fought to keep the man’s hands from her weapon. Searing pain shot across the curve of her rib cage, and she cried out with a shocking yelp. The blade was far too near her heart. She clawed at the man’s eyes in a desperate attempt to gain leverage in the battle for her life. With no knowledge of the severity of the injury, she needed to be free of this man, and quickly. With her thumbs, she dug at his eyes.

Her attacker roared out, reflexively releasing his grip on Cate just long enough for her to ram her knee into his groin. When he curled into a blubbering ball, she seized the moment, taking up her sword and rising to tower over him. Grasping it with both hands wrapped around the hilt, she aimed the blade over the guard’s neck. Cate thrust the steel downward to deliver the death blow.

But before the blow could be fully rendered, Cate found herself being launched over her intended target and landing flat on her back, unable to draw in a full breath. Be it from the unexpected wallop or the massive man kneeling on her chest pinning her to the ground, Cate was unable to move as she struggled to inhale. Those piercing green eyes, wild with anticipation, swallowed her whole in their luminous depths. She fought against his grip, her greatest effort no match for his casual hold on her shoulders. Her side burned with every forced breath. A flicker of panic rooted itself in her mind. Was the wound fatal? Cate couldn’t tell, not with the beast hovering over her, ready to strike at even the slightest of movements.

“Do you yield?”

The unnamed nobleman’s visual grasp on her left her feeling paralyzed.

A spark of trepidation ignited in her chest. She could not lay defeated — she must fight. Conjuring every curse she could muster, Cate spat and hissed at him like a cornered cat, hoping the ruse would drown out the terrifyingly erratic beating of her heart. She writhed beneath him, kicking and twisting, attempting to roll and gain control — to no avail. She cried out against his silent restraint, arching her back in a rebellious tirade. Hot tears seeped beneath closed lids, and she resisted the womanly urge to wipe them from existence. Willing herself to stay strong and keep what little resistance she had left, she opened her eyes to face her captor.

Her concentration wavered between the captivating creature holding her and the sight of her men still engaged in clashing swords and fist fights — neither side winning or losing the endless battle. Colin, seemingly out of arrows, sprinted through the trees, weaponless. She followed him with her eyes. There, in a clearing, stood Wallace, surrounded.

Wallace was going to die.

A scream hitched in her throat. Cate attempted to reach for him, as if she could somehow reach the attackers from her own perilous position. “
No
!” Sobs escaped her lips, contorting her body in unnatural spasms. “God, no, please!” She turned to her aggressor. “I yield! Tell them to stop, I beg you! Spare his life, and you can have mine.”

The nobleman paused at her request, but ultimately ordered his men to hold and retreat. “Harrison, put them in shackles.”

“My lord.” She addressed him with only the safety of her men her concern. “You have what you want. They are of no use to you. Let them be on their way, and I will go with you willingly. Allow them to return to their families. I’m the one you want, not old men and young boys with nothing but dulled weapons to defend themselves.”

Her captor tugged Cate to her feet. “You are in no position to make demands.”

“What would their deaths accomplish? It is I with a price on her head, is it not?”

“You know of it, then?”

“Of course I know of it,” she scoffed. “Word spreads quickly among us
rebels
. ’Tis only a shame I cannot claim it for myself at the present. It would fill many bellies this night.”

“Lord Banebridge.” A guard approached, handing over a set of iron shackles.

“Ah, so he does have a name.” Cate took a step back. “Do we have an accord, My Lord Banebridge? Or shall I run? I feel I have a few hundred more sprints left in me.”

A frown graced the nobleman’s unshaven face. He took a step forward, the shackles open and outstretched. “It is time, Cate Archer.”

She shuffled as the guardsmen herded her men closer. “Release my men.”

“Cate…” Wallace, who had always been like a close uncle, would try to talk sense into her. Of course, he would object to her plans.

She shushed him. “Wallace, it is because of my own doing you are here now, so please let me make it right. I will be fine, just place your trust in me this one last time.” She held out her wrists.

With a nod from Lord Banebridge, the guards backed away from her men, who dispersed into the trees with haste. The sad song of a dunnock drifted to her ears, and Cate blinked to keep tears from welling in her eyes. “Tell me,” she said to Banebridge, as the shackles were tightened around the indents of her wrists. “How much is the bounty now?”

“Ten pounds sterling.” Banebridge tightened the locks, checking their steadfastness.

“Is that all?” The amount surprised her. Eleven dead, and with the count growing higher with each passing day, she hoped the bounty would have been higher. Her people needed it.

“I do not work for a bounty.”

“I gather that.” Cate tested the strength of the short chain connecting the shackles. “So, where do we travel? To the Tower or straight to the hangman?”

Taking her by the arm, Lord Banebridge led her to his men. “We go to London. The Captain of the Guard requested you be delivered… alive.”

He made the
alive
bit seem as though it were a nuisance.

A horse was tacked for Cate, and she was promptly set on it, and her shackled wrists bound to the saddle. Cate counted those around her. Her previous tally had left her with six guardsmen, as to be expected. Now she counted only four. “Lord Banebridge, you seem to be missing two of your men.” She needn’t ask of their whereabouts… she knew they were on the heels of her men. She hoped Wallace and the others would lose them in the cover of the wood. She could only wonder just how deep she had led them into Bedgebury forest.

Banebridge didn’t take her bait; rather, he mounted his horse and gathered the reins. He pulled taught the rope securing Cate’s horse to his.

This Lord Banebridge would be her toughest challenge yet. She surmised he wouldn’t be straying from his orders. Her men were going to need time and help to gain her freedom.

With more men, she would be rid of this imbecile before sunrise.

Owen Grey, Viscount
of Banebridge, pondered the task at hand — bringing a rebel leader to justice — and thought woefully of his neglected estates in Northern England. He also seriously considered investing in an expertly crafted hooded cloak to muffle the deliberate prattle of the spirited woman riding alongside him.

She chattered on endlessly and with purpose. She spoke of her favorite cuts of meat and of how sweet a tansy cake would taste upon her tongue, if only she had the means of purchasing one. She feigned a long sigh, and went on about how her village had been robbed of its winter shares of coin and of how no one would be able to survive the winter to make the peppermint cream she dreamt about at night come the spring.

She laughed at her own silly jokes, poked fun of him and his men, more prudently of the waist size of a certain few. She asked him about personal details, like how much he was paid to hunt down the scum of England and how he felt about taking orders from a child King. Somehow he’d let slip his title of Viscount, and she’d promptly used it as fodder for even more insults. If he’d thought to pack a gag, Cate Archer would be the first one he would use it on, without hesitation.

She finally quieted when he blatantly set out to ignore her. The forest chatter seemed to fall flat alongside them as they traveled the dirt road, and he blamed it on Cate’s distraction, which he took for one small attempt to delay their travel. Owen assumed she planned on her men intercepting and challenging him for rescue — the fleeting deer and flutter of birds certainly kept him on alert. Cate Archer was a smart woman. He had realized it as soon as they had come face to face. He’d seen the fire and determination in her eyes. She was no fool, and he couldn’t allow himself to take her for one. Cate knew the ways of weaponry and of fighting men. He would be the fool in thinking she didn’t have a plan whirling around in that head of hers.

Owen and his small party of guards had ridden for several hours, and his scouting men had yet to return with news of the rebel whereabouts. Cate had done a wonderful job of leading them into the heart of Bedgebury, where most men dared not travel. Stories of spirits and vile creatures had reached his ears when he was but a young lad. It made sense for the outlaws of the land to find solace in it. Its protection was free, and plentiful.

How he wished he’d ignored his father’s request — no, demand — that he return to London. When called back into service, he’d begrudgingly reported. It wasn’t as if he could decline as the son of an earl. His father had graciously gifted him with an undeserved title, and it was his duty to do as his father required of him. This one last task, and Owen’s service to the Crown would be forever in his past; his father had assured him. He would have his separation papers in hand and would be free to pursue his own retirement, and, perhaps, even raise a family if God so allowed. But, knowing his earthly father, the Earl of Lancaster, the latter would surely be most unlikely.

This girl, this… rebel woman, could very well have been his downfall. He’d expected some ill-equipped twit peasant with a town of men promoting her rebellious outbursts, not the headstrong brigand those men willingly followed, and clearly would die for without hesitation. The connection between them, it was something not of this world. A part of him envied that unfeigned trust. The sorry excuse for guardsmen he led would have more than likely abandoned him had the situation been turned on them. A fine group of guardsman, indeed. If he were a betting man, he would wager not one of them would risk their neck for his. And Cate had done it on her own accord.

Cate Archer was no typical woman. He’d rather enjoyed playing her game of cat and mouse. He almost wished they were back in the trees still challenging one another. In that brief moment of freedom in the wood, she had allowed him a small glimpse of her spirit. With the shackles of paternal servitude temporarily lifted, he’d rather enjoyed himself. Owen could not recall the last time he had needed to put in so much effort to rein in a woman.

Alas, brief enjoyment aside, his father was correct in his need for silencing this
problem
before it reached the ears of the King. Owen at first laughed when told a mere woman was behind the murders. But after witnessing her determination himself, he now proceeded with caution. She had wielded that bow as if it were an extension of her own body, and she had not hesitated to end his life when she’d had the chance. It was by sheer luck she had missed, and he would be forever grateful to whatever profane circumstance caused that arrow to fade left.

Spurts of dwindling sunlight filtered through the canopy above as the forest thinned, the thickest grove of trees now some distance behind them. The handful of men sent to accompany him on this fool’s errand conversed amongst themselves as they traveled west to the Bedgebury access road, which would ultimately lead them to London.

And Cate Archer’s execution.

His thoughts turned to his prisoner, and… the absence of her relentless taunting and brazen remarks demeaning his manhood. She didn’t seem like one keen to silence. Had she simply given up so easily after he ceased to acknowledge her banter and gave her his back? Twisting in the saddle, he turned to address Cate.

Slumped over the neck of her mount, she lay unmoving. Held on the horse by the ropes binding her to the saddle, Cate swayed with every equine step. Limp and lifeless, she didn’t rouse when he called her name.

Owen halted his horse, also pulling Cate’s mount to an abrupt stop as he shouted to his men further up the road. Dismounting, he rushed to her side. He shook her. “Cate?” No response. “Harrison, help me!” Owen attempted to release her bindings, but couldn’t support her and untie the ropes while the horse fidgeted beneath her, dancing in half circles around his own horse.

Harrison made quick work of the knots while Owen supported Cate. Released from the bind, she slid from the saddle and into Owen’s arms. Gently, he lowered her to the ground then took hold of her jaw and shook it.

Cate groaned, her eyelids fluttering slightly.

Owen released his hold from the delicate angles of her chin. A scarlet smear painted her pale skin. Blood covered his fingers. “Fetch me water,” he called out to no one in particular. One of his men took up the task while the others gathered round, gawking at the unmoving woman spread on the ground before them. “Harrison, scout the area. William and Thomas have not yet returned, and the Scotsman could be closer than we know.”

Sliding his palms under the back of Cate’s head, he felt her scalp for contusions and found nothing. Her neck, albeit coated with forest grime, was free of blood as well. He rolled her to the side and ran his palm down the curvature of her spine and along the seam of her well-constructed leather brigandine. It had been made for someone else, he noticed… a man about her size and build, but certainly not for her status. The fur-lined richness of its innards gave way to her secrets.

When he reached her ribcage, the tips of his fingers slid along the leather, revealing the source of blood. Finding the slash along the latches of her armor, he unbuckled each one carefully to assess the wound beneath. Her white linen tunic, now stained crimson, clung to the wound.

Owen heaved a sigh. She’d been injured during the scuffle yet said nothing. It would have only admitted weakness, something he understood well. He would have to dress the wound before they could continue on. If they pressed on, the chances of her reaching London were slim. But repairing her would take time. The decision was his to make.

Slouching to his knees, Owen clenched his fists, a silent war waging in his conscience. She was sentenced to die. Ending her now would save her the fear and pain in days to come, but something inside his being wouldn’t allow him to do it. Not now. She looked as though she slept, with long, sooty lashes framing those brilliant eyes that sparked fire just hours before. How could he kill someone who seemed so fragile and innocent to the ways of life?

Turning his attentions to the men still straggling near, he waved them away. “Go form a perimeter, you fools!” He would at least grant her the privacy a woman, peasant or otherwise, deserved. He left her side momentarily to retrieve a saddlebag from his mount and rummaged through it until he found the small medical kit tucked away near the bottom. With what little water that had been delivered to his side, he set to work exposing Cate’s wound.

He somehow managed to remove the brigandine without causing too much distress to her wound. He set it to the side, then removed the fur-lined undercoat. Enlarging the tear of her tunic, Owen found a wide strip of linen wrapped methodically around her upper torso — the only way to bind an ample bosom under amour fitted for a man. He ran the blade of his dagger under the bottom layer of binding to reveal the wound.

Cate drew in a ragged breath. She seemed aware of his doings, but just barely so.

Pouring a bit of water over the area, he wiped away the blood with his fingers, clearing the wound to assess it. It would need proper closing and Owen grimaced at the thought of having to do it himself. The perfectly pale skin was in direct contrast to the hardened exterior she portrayed at their first meeting. Nearly every rib was visible as her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, leaving Owen to wonder just when the girl had last eaten a nourishing meal.

He sewed in silence, his fingers fumbling with the thin bone needle and horsehair. The stitches were crude but would hold well enough to allow the wound time to heal. Having parted Cate with most of her clothing, Owen used a spare tunic as a bandage around her middle and replaced her torn garments with a tunic of his own. A new, very expensive tunic, at that.

Against his better judgment, Owen decided they would make camp for the night. Although he had planned on meeting the access road by dusk, the thicket of trees they’d stopped by would provide more shelter for the night to come. Sunset steadily approached, and there was much to be done. Moving her would be too risky.

Gathering his men, he informed them of his decision. In the spirit of true guardsmen, they balked and objected.

“She is going to die anyhow!” one argued.

“It is our duty as guardsmen to ensure she is fit for trial!” Owen rebutted.

“Bollocks.” Harrison, old enough to be Owen’s father, and having served the earl for longer than Owen had been alive, spit on the ground. “You don’t have the balls to see to her execution now.” He stalked away, bellyaching and groaning over the weakness women cause, and how they were only good for one thing.

The men’s unwillingness to comply only strengthened Owen’s hostility toward his father’s orders. There would be no fire this night, not until William and Thomas returned with news of the whereabouts of Cate’s rebel companions. The men would take turns on night watch, with Owen taking the first shift. The moon rose high above the trees before he allowed himself to rest, and he roused Harrison to continue the watch. Leaving his post, Owen settled on a soft patch of grass near Cate. The night buzzing of a nearby pond filled his ears and he closed his eyes for but a moment.

At first he thought it a dream — be it a very real one — that startled him from sleep… the sound of clinking metal growing ever closer to his ears. It was the shock of cold iron around his throat that made him aware it was no dream. His fingers flew to the links restricting his airway. Following both sides of the chain, he found slender wrists caged by the rings he’d clasped around them.

Gripping her by the arms, Owen wrenched Cate forward, flipping her so that she lay flat against his chest. His arms wrapped around her body, pinning her where she lay. “You play a dangerous game,” he growled in her ear. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing constricted by his hold on her. With every sharp inhale, the swell of her breasts pressed against his forearms. Sinful thoughts swirled around in his darkened mind.

“I have yet to learn your rules, my lord.” She pulled against him, arching her back as she tested his restraints.

Owen groaned, closing his eyes in a feeble attempt to shut out the effects her backside pressing against his manhood had on him. “The rules are simple. Do not try to kill me.”

“Oh, now where is the merriment in that?” Cate chuckled while squirming beneath his hold. “Release me.”

“You have attempted to take my life twice now… why would I ever release you?”

“I am just a woman, my lord. What harm could I cause?”

Owen tightened his hold until Cate breathed out a hiss. He’d grazed her wound. “Have you seen the taxman Henry de Burke as of late?”

“Hmm. There is that,” she replied.

The silence that followed was deafening. She no longer struggled. She seemed to be waiting, just as he was. Breaking the monotonous tone of darkness, Owen spoke softly in her ear. “Are you hungry?”

~~~~

Cate wished he
would remove the shackles, but she knew no amount of persuasion would convince him to do so. The skin on her wrists burned with even the slightest of movements, but it was of her own doing, really. She should not have been caught, and she shouldn’t have attempted to strangle Lord Banebridge. That was foolish in her weakened state. She had let her own arrogance cloud her judgment. He had saved her life, and she had attempted to take his in return. What a fool she was.

An early morning mist swirled about the tips of the pinetum, falling gently to the coniferous floor below. Miniscule droplets clung to the tiny hairs on her skin and eyelashes. Cate sat with her legs crossed at the ankles and restrained hands in her lap, her back straight and propped against the trunk of a wide tree. She concentrated on her breathing, testing to what depths she could inhale without causing the pain to intensify. Once released from Banebridge’s grip, he’d checked her wound despite her protestation, and all looked well, so he said.