The Archer's Daughter

by Melissa MacKinnon

  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 o
ver 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.

  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 th
e 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.