The Archer's Daughter (4 page)

Absent her armor and tunic, Cate felt exposed and vulnerable. She must keep her wits about her, but watching Lord Banebridge’s fluid movements as he crossed methodically through their makeshift camp somehow set her at ease. Dawn was approaching, and with it would bring food and a small fire if the weather permitted. He had promised her hot meat and bread, and had even sent one of his own men out to hunt. She sensed a hostility between Banebridge and his men, and guessed she was the cause. She understood the reasoning — why bother wasting precious time hunting and feeding her when she was sentenced to die anyhow? She would have questioned her men in the same manner, and to be honest, Cate didn’t know whether she would have kept herself alive.

A shot of guilt went straight to her heart. She prayed they were alive and well. Lord Banebridge still had men missing, and Cate hoped it was a sign they could find no trace of Wallace and the others. Once on the access road, rescuing her would prove to be an easier task for them. They knew its secrets and best vantage points. She only needed to get there.

Masculine voices greeting one another distracted Cate from her thoughts. She strained to listen to their conversation without noticeable discern. Banebridge’s men had returned, and from what she could gather, her men headed toward southern Kent and the guards had lost their trail near the river.

Drawing in a long breath, Cate held it in her lungs before expelling it through pursed lips. Her men were headed in the wrong direction. The sliver of hope she’d carried within her diminished into tattered pieces. Rescue now seemed like a distant memory.

“Cate.”

She snapped to attention. Kneeling in front of her, Lord Banebridge held a flask, motioning for her to take it.

“It will ward off the chill.”

She hesitated.

“Go on, take it.” Those green eyes burrowed deep into her own, urging her to blindly trust. “No, I have not put poison in it. Shall I drink to prove I speak the truth?”

Cate took the flask from his outstretched hand with caution and took a whiff of the open end. The aroma of the fermented ale bit at her nostrils and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. It was stronger than she was used to, but she tilted the flask to her lips anyhow, welcoming the liquid as it wet her parched tongue and burned as she swallowed. She cleared her throat when finished, fighting the urge to cough it all back up.

“Thank you, my Lord Banebridge.” She returned the flask.

He took a swig for himself before replacing the cork. “Please, call me Owen.”

Taken aback, Cate raised an eyebrow. “So familiar, my lord?”

“Out here, I am no lord. I’m the same as the rest of my men… a soldier set to task. We are all equals. Owen is my given name, and I prefer it above all others. Owen Grey.”

Never before had she been asked to do such a thing. Not that she spoke with lords on a frequent basis, but she had run into a few from time to time. Those men took pride in their titles, while this Lord Banebridge almost seemed ashamed of his.

“As you wish, then, Owen.” She liked the way his name sounded as it blew through her lips, like a whisper on the breeze.
Owen.
“Are you sure? It seems as though if I were to address you as such, I might see my demise a bit sooner than I’d like, from these guards of yours. Your men address you as Lord Banebridge. Do your mates address you as such? Now that you’ve seen me in less than decent dress, I’d like to think we’re the greatest of mates now.” She did her best to tease, hoping the annoyance would help break him.

Owen ran his fingers along his forehead. “They call me Bane.”

Cate smiled. “Ah, I rather enjoy that. Perhaps I shall call you Bane. I see much provoking in our future, Bane.”

“I did not say I preferred it.”

Cate rolled her eyes. “I now see why they call you Bane. Have you no joy? You, Lord Banebridge, are beginning to be the bane of my short existence.” A rumble in her stomach wrenched her insides. “So where is this food you spoke of? Fatten the pig before slaughter, yes?”

Owen chuckled. The worry lines on his brow smoothed when he smiled. “It is being prepared. Insistent, are we?”

Cate diverted her eyes from his. The way he followed her every move unsettled her. “Just hungry, is all,” she muttered, scanning the small encampment for something, anything that would keep her from having to look at Owen. She felt as if she were on fire whenever she set eyes on the imposing man.

“When was the last time you ate, Cate?” His words were sincere — thoughtful, even.

She turned to face him. Confusion flooded her thoughts. “Why should such trivial details concern you, my lord?”

Owen settled to one knee before her. “You had the advantage during that skirmish. There is only one reason you were not able to escape. I have seen that weakness in the men I’ve commanded in battle. Weary, weak… dying from hunger.”

Her brow narrowed. She’d go to hell before she would admit her limitations to a nobleman, although she supposed he spoke the truth.

“How long?” He pressed.

A waft of cooking meat taunted her. Her mouth salivated in an instant, as if she were a dog scrounging for scraps. Her belly growled, giving in to the torturous smells of delectable food. “Four days at last count. Three before that.”

Owen cursed, rising to his feet. His palms rose to rub his nape. His shoulder length hair, gathered uniformly with a strip of leather, brushed against the neckline of his tunic, its flaxen hue shining in the sun’s light.

“What little I find, I bring to the children. I eat enough to keep me upright.”

Owen cupped his hand around Cate’s elbow, helping her to stand. “In between murdering the taxmen, of course.”

“Of course.” Cate attempted to shake free of his hold, which only caused his grip to tighten. He led her to the fire, where two freshly skinned hares were roasting on a spit. She couldn’t take her eyes from them as the flames licked at the juices seeping to the surface of the meat. Tiny droplets of juicy goodness hissed as they plunged into the flames, and Cate could focus on nothing else.

Owen plopped her near a pile of saddle bags and tack before rummaging through a nearby pack. Retrieving a sack from its depths, he pulled from it several small bread loaves. He tossed one to Cate, and she caught it in her lap.

She tore a bit off with her teeth, savoring the rich flavor on her tongue before swallowing. It was no more than a few days old, baked fresh in the royal ovens, no doubt. Made with quality flour, butter, and sweet cream. Cate closed her eyes and sighed. Given the chance, she could indulge in the goodness of such finery enough to make herself sick. She bit into the bread again, quickly followed by another, until not even the crumbs were left.

An instant ache hit her gut. A wave of nausea swept over her, forcing Cate to recline against the nearest bundle of gear. A saddle made for a makeshift pillow, and she stretched her legs out, waiting for the pangs to subside. She closed her eyes, content to listen to the happenings surrounding her.

The two men to her left cleaned their weapons while they had the time, groaning over the delay. One near the fire told another to keep his hands off the meat… it wasn’t ready. The conversations of aggrieved men were more like the squabblings of old women. The two men who were attempting to find Wallace were surprisingly hushed for having just returned from the hunt. Cate thought they would be busy informing Banebridge of the information they’d gained — where the fresh tracks ended, if there were others coming to her aid, if there was resistance, even. Instead, they’d distanced themselves from the group, remaining near their readied horses. Her instincts screamed at her to keep a wary eye.

Boots shuffled close by. Owen sat on a saddle next to her, with a spitted hare in hand. “Still hungry?”

“Thank you for your generosity, my lord. I know it is not necessary for someone of your status, and I am grateful for your kindness.” Cate accepted the chunk of meat Owen gave her and she brought it to her mouth, savoring every morsel. “Although,” she paused, “I do not understand why. Your obligation is to the Crown, not to me. I
am
your prisoner, am I not?”

Swallowing, Owen wiped his mouth with the back of his palm before speaking. “I am in no hurry to return to London. Are you?”

Cate choked down her mouthful. “No, I cannot say I am.” Heading to her own execution was not a top priority. Escape was, first and foremost. She knew the forest better than most and could survive alone if need be. A plan to rid herself of the shackles was what she needed at present. Sneaking up on an unsuspecting Owen hadn’t been at all successful — she was far too weak to best him. London was a mere two days’ ride, unless she could further stall their departure. She was running out of time and options. Cate could only hope Wallace would return with reinforcements, and soon.

“You seem an honorable man, Bane. Set my mind at ease with the truth. I wish to know what lies ahead.” She tossed a stripped bone into the brush then looked at Owen expectantly, waiting for more. He sliced off a piece of meat and passed it to her. Cate promptly stuffed the entire piece in her mouth. Juice dribbled over her bottom lip and down her chin. With her tongue, she swiped the juices from her lips. Cate wiped the drips from her chin with the pad of her thumb, which she then stuck in her mouth, not wanting to waste even a drop. When Owen didn’t reply, she watched him eat until he sensed her eyes on him. As he looked up from his breakfast, she asked in earnest, “Are you going to finish that?”

Owen relinquished the spit.

One of Owen’s men, whom he’d referred to earlier as Harrison, approached. “Come on, now, Banebridge. She’s had her fill, her wound has been mended. Let us be getting on.” Harrison tossed a saddle pad over his shoulder before pulling the accompanying saddle from the pile. The guard walked to his horse, intent on leaving.

Damn. Her idea of an in-depth conversation about her fate now lay with the pile of bones at her feet. The food had been tasty, at least. And she hadn’t even had to steal it.

All too soon,
Cate was back on a horse and traveling closer to London. Her once calm thoughts turned to madness with each passing hour. She felt as if she were an animal caught in a snare, just waiting for her killer to silence her woeful cries. The more she rebelled against the restraints, the tighter they became. The skin under the shackles — raw and pink — burned as trickles of sweat gathered around the hardened rings.

The trees parted, and there before her was the access road, the one leading straight to hell. She’d been to London only once, when her father had delivered an order of bows to the King’s armory. Cate had been young and fascinated by the ordeal. How she wished he was here with her now. He would know what to do. But alas, he was not. She had failed him, and her father was now forever in turmoil somewhere between heaven and hell as he’d been denied a proper burial by these indignant bastards.

Birds chirped cheerful melodies amongst the pines, and Cate wondered what in life they could be so happy about. In a vengeful mood, Cate whistled the shrill, persistent “
tseep
” of the carefree dunnock, a favorite inconspicuous bird she would track when just a wee thing. The high trilling note received a barrage of song in return, from the many males seeking the illusive female she mocked.

A raven returned the call, spurring a wave of wings. A barrage of leaves and tree clutter plummeted to the forest floor in aberrant circles, settling on Cate’s hair and clothes. The beginnings of a grin formed on her lips, and she fought the urge to form a full-fledged smile, lest someone see it and question her good spirits.

Cate attempted to brush away the debris, but her constraints made it impossible. She blew an errant leaf from her tunic then scratched her cheek with her shoulder where a stem had tickled the tender skin. A residual soap smell still lingered on the fibers of the tunic and she inhaled the pleasing woody scent deeply. The tunic, being of finer craftsmanship, would suit her armor well, acting as a fine replacement to the itchy linen one Owen had destroyed.

As if he knew her thoughts, Owen commented on her armor, or lack thereof. “It wasn’t made for you, was it? Your armor?”

“His lordship heeds to the detail of women’s garments?”

“You enjoy provoking me.” Owen took the reins in one hand and relaxed his stature, slightly turning toward Cate to engage in conversation.

“I find it highly mirthful and positively sinful.” She spied a twitch of a smile beneath the light growth of facial hair lining his strong jaw line. “To answer your inquiry, no, it was not made for me. It was made for a rather dainty imbecile of a man who thought it amusing to taunt young maids with his wee willy by the water’s edge. I put an end to that, and now I am the owner of a very fine piece of leatherwork, which I pray you had the good sense to preserve during your ministrations. I took great care in fitting that piece to my needs.”

Owen laughed. “Do you think me a fool?” He arched an eyebrow.

“I would never, my lord,” Cate mocked, feigning a breathless sigh. The raven called to her once more, signaling the time for action.

“You aim to humor me, Cate?” Owen seemed taken aback by her bold tongue.

“Oh, I aim to do much more than that.” Cate dug her heels into the belly of her mount. It jerked forward at the sudden change of command, severing the tether keeping her horse in stride with Owen’s. He reached for the rope, but it slid through his fingers as Cate barreled through the group of unsuspecting guards. Shadows on the ridge overlooking the road transformed into rows of men, armed only with what they could carry. They bore no armor except what they wore on their backs, but were willing to fight for her freedom. She recognized many faces and prayed for their safety. Her village couldn’t withstand the losses.

With swords held high as she sped along the passage, the men let out a vicious battle cry. Wallace, standing tall and proud in his MacKenzie tartan kilt, cawed a raven’s cry from the top of a boulder jetting out from the ridge overlooking the road. Cate’s spirit soared.

As she rounded a corner, her jubilance contorted into a horrific demon she had not anticipated. Her men were not alone. Before she could scream out his name in warning, Wallace was attacked from behind. He fell from the rock ledge and quickly vanished from sight as her mount completed the turn.

Now ahead of the fight, Cate struggled against her restraints, unable to slow the horse. Defenseless and unable to dismount, she pressed her torso against the neck of the horse, tucking her head in close to its mane as arrows spit at her from above. Muscles seized beneath her. The horse shrieked as it kicked its hind legs out, bucking against the danger it sensed behind it. Glancing to the rear, Cate saw an arrow protruding from its hindquarter. Blood streamed from the wound, discoloring the ground as it stomped in wide arcs along the road, attempting to locate its attacker.

Cate struggled to stay seated. If she were to fall off now, she would be dragged until her arms were ripped from their sockets. Frantic to free herself, she attempted to reach the knots with her fingers. Her endeavors were cut short when a rogue arrow pummeled into the flesh of the beast’s neck. It reared before toppling to the ground in a twist of legs and leather. Pinned and unable to breathe, Cate scrambled to rise as the horse unsuccessfully attempted to regain its footing.

Not able to withstand its injuries, the horse dropped to its side. Bound to the saddle, she was destined to go down with it. It pulled against the bit, snorting drops of blood in a fine spray as it shook its head violently, tugging Cate side to side with every frenzied movement.

A swarm of men wearing painted faces and circular shields charged with swords drawn from further up the access road. Behind her, Wallace — alive, thanks be to God — and the others crossed swords with a mix of Owen’s guards and the mysterious attackers from the ridge. Cate connected with Wallace. The fear in her eyes must have been telling, for he shoved against his attacker with a renewed purpose, flinging the man about and knocking the enemy off his feet. Wallace quickly silenced his opponent with his sword. He raced toward Cate.

Wallace roared her name, dodging a blow as he forced his way closer to her.

Helpless, she could do nothing but watch as a battle sprang up around her like wildfire. The horse jerked forward, and Cate careened against the saddle. Her view of Wallace disappeared. A darkness clouded her vision and an overwhelming urge to throttle something meandered to the surface.

Pushing her frustrations aside, she set to work on the rope knots now loosened by the fallen horse. She gripped the rope between her teeth and worked on one end of the well-tied knot while her fingers pulled at the coil.

“This may be more efficient.”
Owen
. His small blade sliced through the rope spiral, freeing the shackles from the horse.

Cate pounced on Owen, knocking him to the ground. A blade arced above them, narrowly missing them both. Her curses matched those spewing from Owen’s mouth as he kicked their opponent in the gut, allowing precious moments for Owen to seek his sword. He slung one arm around her neck as if she needed the protection, ultimately wedging her frame between himself and the horse. A simmering heat radiated from the taught lines of his physique, every muscle contraction constraining against her curves. His heart pounded a steady rhythm, the repetitive
thud thud
echoing in stark contrast to the tremulous beat of her own. Its calm, soothing pace drowned out the shouts and terror surrounding them, as all she could hear was the perfect, steady drum of his heart.

Owen’s free arm pitched forward as he brought up his blade, deflecting a blow from the painted assailant. The grinding of the blades howled in Cate’s ears. Owen grunted and swung, his sword the only barrier between life and death. A thud reverberated nearby, and he heaved a sigh, finally releasing her from his hold.

Taking her by the arms, Owen sat Cate upright and leaned her back against the horse. In a frail attempt to tidy her shambled appearance, he swept the waves of sable hair back from her face. His palm lingered on her nape while she caught her breath. “Are you hurt?” His concern for her well-being seemed genuine. His enigmatic eyes searched hers, seeking absolution. Their once bright color had turned dark and deep.

“A bit bruised ’tis all, although I’ll feel it mightily in the morning.” Cate peeked over the belly of the horse. More men gathered nearby, a steady strumming of skirmishes exploding in every direction. They were surrounded. “Are these your men?”

“No, not mine. They fight your Scotsman, as well. Perhaps we all seek the same prize?”

“A burden, yes… but a prize? Maybe for the devil himself. I am no prize, not for any man.” Cate pulled the shackles taught, the jingle of the chains loud and clear. “Please tell me you carry the key, Bane.”

“I do.” Owen sneaked a look at the action then hunkered below the horse to join Cate, taking great care to be sure all limbs were under cover of the massive steed.

Arrows snapped the dirt not far from their feet. “Who are these men? I have never come across such vile looking creatures.” Cate lowered to her side, hoping to hinder further detection. An arrow to the back of the skull after all she’d endured the last few days seemed like a terrible way to meet her maker.

“They are head hunters — after yours, I gather. They are mercenary and acting merely for the reward. They do not care who they kill in the process, making my job extremely difficult.”

“For ten quid? Hell, I have that amount stowed away in the trees.” All of this commotion for her? The local villages knew her well and would not do such a thing. Word must have spread further than Kent. For someone to risk their life to bring her in seemed foolish, but then again, she had met some unsavory blackhearts who would kill a man for a swig of ale. She wouldn’t put the same past this group of ruffians. “Do you think, perhaps, the good Captain has put a price on your head as well?” Cate chuckled as another slew of arrows descended much too close.

“I should dearly hope not, as that good Captain, as you call him, is my father.”

“Ahh, well then. I should have known it was he who would want me dead the most. His men
do
seem the easiest to eliminate. Perhaps he has raised the price to an irresistible sum?”

“Perhaps he’d rather see you dead than be bothered with a fair trial.”

Owens words cut her to the core. Cate had never thought about the fairness of the accusations, but she didn’t deny them, either.

Completely surrounded, it seemed fitting she should die next to a man as fine as Owen. Honorable and certainly handsome, dying in his arms would be a fine way to go. Indeed. She had taken down her fair share of men and knew someone would rise in her stead.

Clear your thoughts, Cate. There will be no dying today. There will be
no
dying today.
She repeated the words until she believed them. “Bane, we are going to perish right here if you do not release me.” She tugged against her restraints. “You have to trust me. You cannot fend for the both of us. Remove the fecking shackles.” The chain jingled. “
Now
, Bane. The shackles!”

Owen opened the small pouch on his belt and dug for the key.

“Hurry!” Cate rocked forward in anticipation

Upon finding the key, he fumbled with the chains as he turned the lock. The rings dropped to the ground and she was free. She rubbed the irritated skin for a moment before hastily picking up a nearby the fallen sword.

Owen’s grip on the hilt of his own sword visibly tightened.

Cate rolled her eyes. “Be calm. We fight together or we both die this day.”

“So we call a truce, then? You shall not try to kill me, and I shall try not to kill you?”

“For the time being, yes.” She tested the weight of the sword with a small half-arc swing.

Owen shifted his hunched stance but didn’t completely turn his back to her, even though several head hunters charged at them from behind. She understood the distrust. Cate wouldn’t allow herself to be vulnerable to anyone, especially not to the man seeking her arrest.

Bracing for attack, Cate took a deep breath, tightened her grip on the crudely constructed sword, and waited for impact. Without her armor and her bow, she felt entirely exposed. Not used to the weight of the metal, the first swing missed her intended target completely, and she nearly lost her footing in the fray. She compensated by shouldering the man in the gut, knocking him back just enough for Owen to slash him across the chest.

“We must head for the trees. We are too exposed here.” Owen leapt to the side, dodging a jab from his opponent.

She attacked the man from behind, thrusting her sword through his side. The aggressor gurgled then slumped to the ground. Removing her blade from the body, she said, “I agree. I am more useful with a bow. I grow tired of this sword nonsense. Duck.”

Owen dropped to the ground as Cate swung wildly above him, severing the neck of another head hunter. Blood sprayed in a wide fan as the man’s artery continued to pump while he fought for breath. Rolling out from beneath the dying enemy, Owen thrust his sword into the man’s belly, finishing him.

Wiping the sticky substance from her face, she sucked in an exhausted breath. “To the trees, then?”

Owen staggered forward, nearly crashing into Cate. He gained his footing and quickly swept his vision over their surroundings. Taking Cate by the hand, he led her further up the road until they found a spot to cross. Small skirmishes flourished all around them, neither party willing to give up.