Chapter Two
“So much for a meal,” Mariel grumbled.
She had managed to scarf down some scraps from the servants’ tent the night before but had counted on her last coin to purchase a few buns, some apples, and a turkey leg. It had been several days since she had eaten a filling meal. Her stomach growled just thinking about it.
She found her saddle packs where she had left them and hoisted them onto her shoulders. Now she needed to find a hiding place to change out of her bloody gown. She hated the corset. A restriction. Restrictions, whether they be a corset or a father’s edicts, were only designed to control a woman. And that kind of control had no place in Mariel’s life.
As she made her way toward the woods from the fair in the most surreptitious way possible, hoping to find a secluded copse of trees, she heard clanking, and sensed someone’s presence. She turned to look over her shoulder. The man with hazel eyes and perfectly disheveled hair jogged to a halt not far from her, his sword slapping his thigh.
She gave him her full attention and lifted her chin, making a note of her dagger down her bodice and one more in her gown pocket. She would not be able to best him in a duel, but she might manage to escape. Yet, she didn’t perceive that he posed a threat.
“So that’s it? You toss three shillings into our coffers and then depart?” he asked.
“I search for a bit of privacy. The incessant racket down there is enough to make any sane person mad.”
He chuckled. Lo, but don’t his cheeks crease in the most handsome way. The early light made his eyes sparkle, too, an olive green flecked with tan and brown, sitting low on the morning horizon as the sun was doing. She rolled her eyes. A pretty face was a pretty face, nothing more, and there was no reason to take notice of his.
“Do I irritate you?” he asked, walking closer.
“No. Why?” she replied.
“The way you rolled your eyes to heaven would suggest otherwise.”
Dear Lord, but did I actually roll my eyes? She had thought it a sentiment only in her head.
“I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
He smirked and his brows knitted together, thick and arching over the most perfectly cut cheeks and jaw. That wasn’t true. His face was littered with little scars, indicative of good training or perhaps fighting. But he was not a knight, that much was certain. Knighted, probably, but not a warrior. His body had not developed the breadth of a barrel like the other knights whose bones were as robust as well-made ale.
“Do you always move about so freely without escort?” he pressed.
“As a matter-o-fact, I do.” She kept her chin lifted as his eyes did an involuntary glance at her chest, then her body in general.
“You should be careful, Miss. If Elmer has any good sense, he would not allow you to cavort about a fair alone. Rogues lie in wait to seduce fetching faces such as yours,” he teased. “And thieves plague these forests. They’re said to seep out of the trees, attack their quarry, make off with bags of coin, and disappear again like wraiths. William de Wendenal has indeed complained of these attacks more than once. I can’t imagine how they would ravage a woman such as you.”
She knew about William de Wendenal, King Richard’s Sheriff of Nottingham, who had been appointed to uphold the laws upon the king’s departure for the Crusades. Indeed, she had successfully eluded him a few times as his men had stalked the countryside in search of law-breakers. His reputation as a corrupt official who burdened the people of England with unfair taxes and increased rents was widespread. Families, rich and poor, had all fallen victim to him.
“Considering I’m the older sibling, I’ve never thought it wise to submit to the lad’s inferior protective skills,” she said. “And I assure you, a thief would not score much in the way of valuables from me.”
“Have you no parents to ensure your safety?”
She wanted to laugh at that remark. She did indeed have a father, though her safety was not his chief concern. Her mouse of a mother had languished in fear of her father, Harold Crawford, the Sheriff of Ayrshire, before she’d died. A cruel man, her father had earned the nickname The Beast of Ayr. And her sister…
Oh my wee sister! Just the thought of her made the pain in Mariel’s heart ache anew. Madeline was a beauty—soft, demure, obedient, and quiet. So quiet, she was all but a shadow, and because Mariel was a horrible older sister, she had left Madeline behind to fend off their father on her own.
Yet their father had always taken most of his anger out on Mariel, while her younger sister, due to her quiet nature, had escaped much of it. Unlike Madeline, Mariel had never been demure. She had argued when things seemed unjust, spoken out of turn, and Lord, had she rolled her eyes! Her father had hated it. No, Mariel might have had a title, but she had gladly left behind her father’s wealthy castle for a hidden hayloft here, a nook in a back alley there, or a secret campsite deep in the countryside. A hayloft or a campsite meant freedom from Harold Crawford. Thinking of what that man had done to her made her shudder. He was evil. Growing up his eldest daughter had been a curse.
“I have no parents, my lord,” she replied. “It’s just me…and Elmer.” She caught herself.
Now the man chuckled, folding his arms and taking a wide stance, which only enhanced his lean-waisted, broad-shouldered physique. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop herself from a quick perusal of his shape—as he had done of hers moments before.
“Come off it, Miss. There is no Elmer, and you and I both know it.” He lifted her hands in his and inspected them. “Wear you no gauntlet for archery?”
She whipped her hands away from him, causing her packs to lurch down her arms. Embarrassingly, it threw her off balance and she stumbled, though the man grabbed her shoulders to steady her. Was her ruse so easily spotted? And her hands and wrists did, in fact, bear marks where the bow had snapped her over the years and where calluses had formed beneath her fingers.
“I…I wear one, but only when I must. The leather is in poor repair and needs restitching.”
He thought for a moment. “’Twas a moderate purse I saw you handling. Why not purchase what you need here? Perhaps a new gauntlet?”
“Would I not be turned away for attempting to try on and purchase male goods? Just as I was from your tent by that fat arse of a man?” she countered.
Instead of growing angered, like some men would at a flippant female, he tipped his head back and laughed.
“Ah, yes. Sir Wesley. I noticed your pretty smiles and wily ways lost on him.” He leaned down close to her ear as if to tell a secret, and she caught the smell of mint, leather, and wine. Coming from him, it was a heady potion. She also glimpsed the shadow of a beard forming. Entirely too attractive. “He prefers, how shall I put it? Stallions, to mares, if you understand my meaning. Your feminine manners only irritated him, I’m afraid.”
She didn’t think it was possible to feel scandalized, living like she did and enjoying the occasional comforts of a man, but immediately she blushed. Such an act of sexuality could get a man killed, if he weren’t careful. She cleared her throat, and then her stomach growled. Loudly.
“The food stalls are from whence you came as well, Miss,” the man stated, amusement still contorting his lips.
“I thank thee for pointing out the obvious,” she simpered with a syrupy smile. “I was unaware.”
“Come now, no need to be all prickles and thorns. We’re competitors but not adversaries,” he said. “I’m Robert. And you are?”
Competitors? Dear Lord, I am in over my head with this one. The man had the look of an expert archer: well-developed shoulders, toned physique. Of course, now his lack of a warrior breadth made sense. He was definitely a fit man, but trained for archery, agility, and speed, not for swinging flail maces and pole axes. And she desperately needed the prize money. Though Robert wore little to denote his rank, his golden hilt and a few bejeweled rings told her he lived a comfortable life. Why would he possibly need more wealth?
“Are you going to deny me my pleasantries due? ’Tis considered polite to return an introduction,” he scolded, though there was only teasing in his voice, not censure.
She couldn’t tell him her name. The fear that accompanied the thought of her father finding her and dragging her back to Scotland overcame her. If word that Mariel Crawford was in southern England should reach the walls of Castle Ayr, Harold the Beast would know exactly where to locate his runaway daughter. She had managed to live eight months of freedom and she could only hope for many more.
She sighed, rolled her eyes, shook her head, and attempted to sidestep him. “I really must be going.”
He blocked her path. “What’s so hard about saying a name?”
She tried to sidestep him again, and again, Robert stepped in front of her. She could feel him watching the indecision on her face. She came to a conclusion and lifted her chin defiantly.
“I cannot tell you,” she huffed, blowing out the corner of her mouth like one would blow an errant lock of hair from their face.
“Then I shall have to call you Elmer,” he said with a laugh. “Come, Elmer. And get yourself a leg of turkey. The fare is quite good this year.”
Her stomach growled again, right on cue, and she gripped her middle with embarrassment. “All the same, I seek privacy.”
She hoisted her packs upward again and managed to get around him this time when he grabbed her wrist. She snapped her arm away and her coin purse snagged through his hands, ripping the strings and spilling the contents on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but then he looked down and saw pebbles scattered in the grass. His brow furrowed. Mariel’s face burned, but she couldn’t think to do anything. He looked back at her, concern for her as clear on his face as the sun was in his eyes. “Have you no money?”
She straightened her back, searching for courage, and turned away from him. Humiliation never lost its sickly feeling. “I have none. Your man Wesley demanded my only spare shilling.”
“And that was all the coin to your name?”
She shrugged. Nodding would be too acquiescent.
“But how will you eat?”
She laughed; a huff, really. “I’ve always been resourceful. And when I win today, my problem will be solved. Hunger is a good motivator.”
She walked away, only to stop in her tracks once more when Robert leaped in front of her. Again. “Do you mind―”
“You’re really that good at slinging an arrow?”
“Don’t you have a whore awaiting you?” she snapped. If her words were too aggressive, it certainly wasn’t because the idea bothered her.
“Two, actually,” he said smugly, folding his arms.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, but it only made him chuckle.
“Remember, Wesley plays on and for the man’s team. Someone will need to entertain the woman brought for him, and I find it my solemn duty to take responsibility for my man’s shortcomings, like any good noble would.”
She rolled her eyes…again. Another chuckle escaped Robert.
“So, are you that good?”
She gazed up at him and for once didn’t try to hide her vulnerability. But the pity that overtook Robert’s face told Mariel that he saw something fragile and broken. She tried to strengthen her expression. “I have to be confident, don’t I? ’Tis a man’s world I brave alone. My next meal depends on it.”
He paused, then nodded with something akin to respect. Then he dug into his codpiece, doubling as a purse, and Mariel tried her damnedest not to watch, for he may as well be trifling with his cock.
“Here, Elmer,” he baited, holding out a shilling. “A reimbursement for the unfair tax levied against you. Your complaint was duly noted by the head of staff.”
She rolled her eyes once more. “Do you say nothing without a sense of humor? How exhausting for the lady in your life.” She frowned, attempting to leave him once and for all. “I won’t take charity. ’Tis not your place to recompense me.”
“Woman.” He sighed, halting her once more, exhibiting a hint of exasperation. As if she were a common harlot, he shoved the coin down her bodice, his finger sliding into her cleavage, leaving her scandalized and speechless. “It is my place. I’m hosting this entire event. The staff here is mine. The land is mine. The tents are mine. And the food is mine.” Her bloody stomach growled again. “With my money, I’ll do as I damn well please. And don’t worry. Nary a man will recognize Elmer like I did, for nary a man would think a mere girl bold enough to break such a law.”
And then to her shock, he bent down and stole a kiss, a light dusting of his lips over hers before grinning like an egg-stealing cur and walking away. “Good luck, my fetching one,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re going to need it.”
…
All morning Mariel’s lips tingled. What had possessed the man to think he had the right to kiss her? Especially when he was about to satisfy his fancies with two other women? She shouldn’t care about it, for it wasn’t as if she knew him, but she did care. He, of course, was a fine specimen of the male gender, but she had met men like him before. No—arrogant kiss aside—he was thoughtful, took time to observe and consider things. And he was hosting this event? That would make him the bloody Earl of Huntington, though he hadn’t introduced himself as such and neither was he flaunting his status. And he kissed me…
“You’re a gullible sop if you think that kiss meant a damn thing to him,” she muttered, shaking her head.
She finished binding her chest to flatten her breasts, the one lush thing about her body that made her proud. The rest of her was toned, from the daily exercise of rough living, and too skinny from many lean days without much to eat. She was not nearly as curvy as was popular among ladies. Next, as she stood among the trees in the blissful silence, a brook babbling by her feet, she released her coiffure and allowed her honey-blonde braid to hang free. She unknotted the tie and pulled the cords apart, shaking them loose in a ripple of gold. She had been told by a lover once that her hair was the color of barley at sunset. She liked to think of it like that, though she knew that it, too, was plain.
She bound it into a ponytail, then with practiced precision, folded it under and wrapped it in laces so it resembled a horse’s cropped tail, pulling some shorter wisps loose to hang down her face. After she had rubbed dust upon her skin to give herself a more masculine look, she threw her cloak over her shoulders, strapped her quiver to her hip, and tucked her gown and effects beneath a rotting log, away from the eyes of scavengers and thieves, both of whom made a killing at fairs. With thieves plaguing the surrounding forests, as Robert had just informed her, there was more cause to be cautious.
Pulling on her gauntlets, the stitching was indeed in a woeful state. But alas, there was nothing to be done about it. With the prize money, she would be able to purchase a needle and threading.
A horn was blasting in the distance, a call for competitors to arrive at the champ de tir, the shooting range. She walked from the woods through the grasses, into the sea of tents and fairgoers, through the salty smells of vendors’ foods. She entered the champ de tir and found a table set up for checking in contestants. Banners surrounded the pitch. Shimmering coats of arms of every color. The Earl of Huntington’s bold black-and-green standards trimmed with silver were the most prominent, framing the stands covered in a matching awning.
And there he was, the handsome earl, nestled into a throne of a chair with several tittering maidens fawning over him, which he humored with a smile, a laugh, or a wink. He was slouching on one arm, his legs wide, no doubt giving his generous codpiece breathing room, like a bloody king overlooking his dominion. Mariel couldn’t help but gawk. But when the man looked out over the proceedings and spotted her, small of stature compared to the men around her, he seemed to straighten.
Her eyes flitted to the targets set up afar, as if they were the most interesting things. Arriving at the table, she put an X beside Elmer’s name and moved to her prescribed target. She ignored her competitors who looked down at her, shaking their heads or uttering a jest to one another at her expense. She wasn’t used to being taken seriously, anyway. Because she looked like a lad, she was dismissed as poorly skilled. She’d let their doubt bolster her. She was good, and soon they would be swallowing their smug words, and their surprise and irritation would only serve to encourage her more.
She had begun practicing in secret ever since she was a child. A kindly priest, also her tutor―for despite her father’s overlord ways, he needed her to know her letters and numbers should he have no choice but to declare her his heir―had wanted to teach her to focus her restless energy on a task. He had placed cloth letters, words, and figures upon a target, and instructed her to shoot the correct answers to his questions.
And from that, not only had her knowledge grown, but her archery skills had blossomed. She could solve figures and shoot with precision, both tasks of which women were deemed too simple of mind. And when her father had demanded she marry a domineering English earl known for his “iron fist” to subdue her “uppitiness,” she had bolted. Fast. Leaving my sweet sister behind. And she had been running ever since. She felt a pang in her chest.
“Good day, Elmer. Should be a cracking competition, no?”
She whirled around. Somehow, without her noticing, Huntington had snuck up on her. That usually never happened. Living as the daughter of the Beast had taught her to be on guard at all times and never leave her back vulnerable.
“’Twould seem I’ve been placed beside you,” he added.
“’Twould seem,” she replied, feeling sweat from the East Anglian sun make her brow moist. Except she had seen the lineup before taking her place, and Robert had been placed elsewhere, which meant he had switched places with her neighbor. “So you might continue to taunt me, no doubt.” She smirked, rolling her eyes.
“What?” he asked.
Sakes, had she said that aloud? Lord but she was distracted. “Nothing.”
He circled her, his arms folded, and damn it, but her stomach growled again. Thankfully, he made no more remarks about it. She faced forward, waiting for him to finish, feeling her pulse spike at his nearness. She didn’t need this before a competition. She needed to relax and focus. If she didn’t win, she would have to resort to stealing game and hiding her cooking fires, if she had any hope of surviving. With no prize money, she would have no way to enter the next tournament in about a month’s time in Essex. And wouldn’t the Sheriff of Nottingham enjoy catching her for hunting the king’s game? With his repute, he would throw her in a dungeon.
But if she could save enough, she could eventually buy passage to France, and from there fade away from her father’s constant searching, into the mainland, perhaps Rhineland or even Naples or Genoa. Into oblivion. And that thought was enough to help her find her focus. Harold Crawford simply couldn’t find her, or else she might not live to be married off to his chosen noble. He might very well beat her to death for her transgression. I must win.
With her focus in place, she didn’t even notice when the earl backed off and took up his position beside her.
“All contestants will complete two ends of six arrows each!” shouted the barker, reading from a scroll. “The four highest scorers will advance to the second round, and more’s the pity for the sorry buggers who do not!”
The stands laughed at his remark while a duo of jesters pretended to shoot arrows, one exaggerating victory while mocking the second’s inferiority. When they were done frolicking, the barker continued.
“For any arrows that deflect, the contestant is immediately disqualified! The second round will consist of two more ends! And only two will advance to the final round! Which means two more contestants will be leaving without the purse of forty shillings, but indeed with their tails betwixt their legs!” Again the jesters entertained the masses with a ridiculous skit and vulgar gestures referring to the “tail” all men sported between their thighs, causing rows of laughter and scandalized tittering from the ladies. “In the final round, marksmanship will be judged by hitting different marks on the target, marked by the numbers one through five and the final arrow a bull’s eye! Or so we can only hope! One end! And of this, one winner!”
She absorbed the rules. All contests were similar, but this tournament had attracted a large gathering and twenty contestants, so there would be three rounds instead of two. As the barker cleared himself from the pitch, the call was made to present an arrow. A flag was raised. Mariel withdrew an arrow from her quiver at her hip, nocked it, and drew back her arm and shoulder blade.
When the flag dropped, twenty arrows soared down the pitch. One arrow bounced off target and flopped in the grass. The contestant, angered, stormed off the field with laughter and jeers at his back. Three more arrows were off-center. Mariel’s arrow had struck the middle, as she had expected. So had Huntington’s, she noted. And Huntington had seen hers. She could tell by the way he glanced over his shoulder in her direction before returning his eyes to the field as the judges walked down the row of targets and examined each shot.
Boys scrambled onto the champ de tir to collect each arrow and then cleared off. The flag was raised, the nineteen remaining contestants nocked another arrow from their hips and again, a shower of projectiles was released. She hit center again. So did Huntington. As the contest progressed and twelve arrows were released, Mariel was among the top four scorers to succeed to the second round. And to her chagrin, Huntington was also one of the four.
As the extra targets were removed from the pitch, the earl turned to her and gave her a respectful nod before once again returning his attention to the task at hand. Will he turn me in for being a woman? She supposed he would have done so already, if he were planning on it, but still, the thought nagged her. If she won, he might turn out to be a sore loser.
The second round continued as the first: two ends consisting of six arrows apiece. And quite suddenly, Mariel realized that the contest had boiled down to just her and Huntington for the final round. The number patches of one through five were arranged on various locations on the target, with the bull’s eye unobstructed for the sixth and final arrow. She took a deep breath, her palms sweaty and her fingers beginning to tremor. She shouldn’t feel nervous, but she did. Normally, she could focus her energy until she was almost entranced, but with Huntington beside her, both strikingly handsome and uncommonly perfect at archery, not to mention that kiss…
Lord! Her focus had just vanished again.
“Not good,” she whispered to herself so softly it was probable no one could hear her.
Except the blasted earl had. He turned to glance at her, and she was fearful that her nerves showed clearly on her brow.
“May the best man win, Elmer,” he said, with a smile both sincere and cocky, depending on how one looked at it.
She chose to think of it as cocky and scowled in return. Her food, her very livelihood, depended on this final round. She couldn’t lose.
With all eyes on them, they took up their positions once again. The extra targets had been removed so that only two remained—hers and his. With the numbers clearly marked, the stands hushed and the barker called for the commencement of the final end. The flag was raised, Mariel and Huntington withdrew their arrows and nocked them, dragging back their shoulder blades and elbows, and the arrows soared as the flag dropped. Both lodged in their respective number ones.
Mariel continued to sweat, beads gathering at her temples, eyebrows, and upper lip. Her palms had gone from sweaty to clammy, and she took a deep breath to steady her fingers. Yet the trembling only intensified. Another arrow nocked, another released, and both hit number two dead on. The crowd of onlookers gasped, murmured, and then grew silent again as the next arrow was nocked, then released. Number three was hit, as was number four, and number five. They were tied evenly, and only one more arrow could be slung.
Mariel summoned all of her energy and focus, and aimed into the middle of the bull’s eye. Her gauntlet creaked and sadly, she felt another stitch pop from the leather. The flag was held high for an agonizing moment longer than the others, surely driving the throngs of onlookers mad with suspense, and as it was dropped, Mariel and Huntington released their bow strings. Their arrows whirled forward on an identical path and lodged in the center of each bull’s eye.
The stands erupted, cheered, chattered, the same question on their minds as was on Mariel’s and Robert’s. Who had won? Was it a tie? Huntington turned and looked at her squarely, and she could sense his relief that it was over. Odd, because he had done a superb job of acting cool and stoic the entire time.
“Such competition, I have never had.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You truly are as good as you claim. My respect, Elmer.” And that damn twinkle was back in his eye. Mariel nodded in return.
“Likewise, sir,” she bit out.
He turned to the officials—Wesley, the fellow who preferred stallions, being one of them—and cupped his hand around his mouth. “What of the prize?” he shouted. “Do we split it fifty-fifty?”
The officials hastened to the targets with a measuring tape. Mariel felt her breath catch in her throat again. If one of theirs was off by even a hair’s breadth, there would be a winner. She needed those coins. With them, she could spend the night in a tavern bed instead of a hayloft or on the hard forest floor. With them, she could buy a roasted pheasant, a giant loaf of bread, and a whole sack of apples and eat every ounce of them in one sitting. With those coins, she could purchase needle and thread to fix her gauntlet, and even after a month, she would have money saved toward her eventual flight to the mainland of Europe.
Genoa or Rhineland. Aye, both sounded good.
Nay, Genoa. Rhineland was a nice thought, but it would be cold in the winter. Genoa would always have the sultry Mediterranean keeping its shores thawed.
“’Twas a valiant effort!” called the barker. She snapped back to attention. Lord, but she had been so busy salivating at the thought of the meal she hoped to get, she hadn’t noticed that the officials were finished measuring the arrows. “But not valiant enough for one poor soul! The winner of the forty shillings is…” The drummer rolled his drum. “His Lord! The Earl of Huntington!”
The crowd erupted again. The ladies cheered. Mariel felt like she had been punched in the gut.
Her lip trembled. Ladies tossed their favors at the earl, who smiled congenially and nodded his thanks to his well-wishers, though his eyes kept glancing at her. A petite woman, young and pretty with bobbing auburn hair, shoved her way through the others, throwing herself at Robert, and Mariel’s breath left her completely. It was not real, not possible, that she had lost, and indeed he did have a lady in his life. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. A most non-masculine sob tried to spill from her mouth, but she swallowed it, feeling her face go ashen.
Robert finally managed to pull himself away from the swarms, extracting himself from the young woman she heard him call Lady Anna, and extended his hand to her.
“Indeed there was no difference between our projectiles to the naked eye,” he said, and there was no mistaking his genuine admiration this time. “You’re a gifted archer. Tell me, would you be willing to consider a particular arrangement of employment? If you might consider it, I have a proposition and would like to meet with you privately…”
Mariel hardly heard a word as he shook her wrist, her arm whipping up and down like a limp rope. Normally, she would be elated at the compliment Robert paid, offering her a position reserved for a man, but she was still fighting to regain her breath. Her mind was an eddy. She had just lost, and she had never lost. And with that loss went everything.
She might very well starve to death. Her stomach growled again so intensely it actually hurt, but she backed away from Huntington, who was doing a spectacular job resisting the many men, and women, of course, surrounding him once more. Work for him? She was a woman, and when rumors spread that the Earl of Huntington had a female archer in his employ, Scottish at that, it would only be a matter of time before Harold Crawford, Sheriff of Ayrshire, heard the tales and came to reclaim her. And that man Wesley, who clearly adored her, would probably roll out the royal carpet in welcome.
“Will you consider it?” she heard him ask, but she was already turning away, moving across the champ de tir, then striding, then running.
Away from the targets. Away from the crowds. She gathered her precious arrows and didn’t bother to look back at the earl now drowning in a sea of ladies’ laughter and compliments as she headed toward the forest, to lick her wounds, to disappear.
…
Robert watched the mysterious woman disappear and tried to make chase, but his men-at-arms surrounded him with congratulatory slaps. And the women… Lord! The tittering women! He couldn’t be rude to his subjects and guests, but could they not leave him be? And Lady Anna, of course, cousin to his own cousin, Will Scarlet, had arrived at Huntington the sennight previously to attend the tourney, attaching herself to him like a lover. He had proven to be woefully terrible at shaking her off.
If he was not mistaken, “Elmer” had noticed Lady Anna’s antics, too, and he found the hurt that spread on her brow to be curious, similar to the hurt she had shown when he teased her about the whores. For some reason, he didn’t like how her look of hurt made him feel.
He had little interest in the other women’s favors and compliments. He indulged them with a wink or a flirt, but contrary to what they vied for—a chance to lie abed with him—he seldom offered. And no matter how much King Richard had pressured him to enter a betrothal to one of the ladies from the other strong English earldoms, he had resisted. Until it was a royal demand, Robert would be damned if he would get trapped in marriage to one of the court’s demure and mindless maidens. Marriage carried with it sanctity to honor one woman for the rest of his days, or hers, and such a solemn vow was not given cheaply—by him, at least.
Yet he was intrigued with “Elmer.” There was a hardiness and resilience about her that he liked. Unconventional, for certain. A survivor. And yet something elegant and refined in the way she carried herself, though he was certain she did her best to hide it. Something fueled her ruse. Something serious enough it compelled her to win no matter the cost. A cruel father? Husband? Her family’s title being stripped? She had, in fact, worn a gown and coif barely denoting her as a noble, which could mean she hailed from a low ranking barony or perhaps a fallen noble with no more land or title. But she needed the money like she needed air, ’twas obvious.
And he had more wealth than he could ever count, an arbitrary figure written in a ledger, for the vaults housing his riches would take sennights to count by hand. The woman was starving, that much was clear. She was thin, not just slender. And he had just secured the entire forty shillings for himself. Forty-one, actually, thanks to Wesley stealing her final coin. ’Twas unfair and it bothered him.
But as he peeled away from the merrymakers and searched the encampment, there was no sign of “Elmer.” She seemed to have vanished, just like the thieves now plaguing the forests. Interesting. Phantoms, he had heard Nottingham label them after the man had been robbed of all his travel money—money ill-gotten from robbing innocents, Robert reminded himself. She would fit in well with that band of misfits.
He went to the stables as twilight settled in, and the groom confirmed that yes, the diminutive archer had collected his horse and departed northward toward the trees “Elmer” had taken her packs to earlier, no doubt to disguise herself. She had done a fine job, too, for she had looked like a lad. But all he could keep thinking about now was how a young woman became more skilled than a master archer. That, and what did her honey-blonde hair look like unbound and flowing? He had seen her beauty beneath the smudges of dirt, her moss-colored eyes assessing him.
He jogged to the outskirts of camp and found the spot she had likely used as her dressing chamber. But there was no sign of her except for a ribbon, which he recalled had been tied to her wrist. He pulled it from beneath a decaying log. It was faded, dirty with road dust, but had once probably been soft pink like a rose petal. He rubbed a thumb over it, thinking it was a favor he actually would have liked to have worn today, then he smiled at the preposterousness of it all. The one woman to snag his interests was a phantom, not even real, it seemed, and he returned to the tournament.
He crossed paths with Jonathan, his first in command and a huge fellow, lingering near the archery tent along the periphery of the market.
“Do you await a lady friend?” Robert grinned, slapping him on the shoulder, for the man appeared to have pained himself to look presentable, and didn’t he know John’s reputation with the fairer sex.
Though they stood nearly at the same height, a good six feet and six inches, Jonathan was a hint taller and filled out with muscle like an ox.
“Indeed, Robert. I was supposed to meet that pretty maid who came to enter her brother into the archery contest. But she has stood me up, it seems. I haven’t seen a sign of her since.”
That idea didn’t sit well with Robert. Why, he could not say, but he knew how charming John could be and blast it, but he had been thinking of the woman himself all bloody day. She had indeed caused him a good mystery, and staying focused on the contest had taken effort he’d never had to use before. He had wanted to keep looking at her, examine her form, examine how she constructed her fletching, and study her accoutrements, all of her accoutrements. She had potential in his employ and in his life. He wanted to know more about her and certainly didn’t want John, with his fair face and straight teeth, to know more than he did. But the woman in question was gone. So it mattered not. He sighed.
“Ah, it seems we are looking for the same woman. I wished to congratulate her brother for his stiff competition and give him this purse of winnings, for he needed it more than I,” he remarked. “But alas, the lad departed after the contest, so it’s fair to assume she went with him.”
John looked disappointed, and as the two parted ways, Robert ignored more of the same empty compliments bestowed upon him by the unmarried maids, the men who wished to have his favor, and his subjects. He saw Lady Anna eyeing him from a cluster of other ladies and detoured in the opposite direction. Anna’s flirtations were amusing, yet they made him uncomfortable now. He had a purse of coins in his pocket that made no difference to his financial status, while a young wisp of a woman was hungry and unaccompanied in his woods, a prime target for an attack or a rape by vagabonds.
He rolled his shoulders to release some tension. He should have thrown the competition to her favor, though he sensed that handing her a win would have insulted her and he was always sportsmanlike. Yet he hated seeing people suffer and made a point to welcome in the poor hungry souls who showed up at his castle gates thanks to Nottingham’s evictions, unlike his recently deceased father who had been notorious for snubbing his nose at the less fortunate. And retraining his soldiers and guards to do the same had been a challenge, though the Huntington guard was a loyal sort he had found he could trust. Using force was the method his father had blessed, but Jonathan understood the changes Robert was bringing about and wielded his influence successfully over the other men. As the new earl, Robert would gladly have given “Elmer” aid.
As the tournament drew to a close two days later, after he had assisted his staff in seeing that the stands and tents were packed, the grounds were cleared, and his artisans’ goods were prepared for transport, he rode for home alone. He reached inside his coat to reassure himself that the ribbon from the woods was still against his chest. Each day he had tried to shake the thought of her and each night he had combed the woods for a sign of her, but the phantom, Elmer—he smiled—had left no trace at all.