Page 1 of An Earl for the Archeress

Chapter One

East Anglia, November, Anno Domini, 1190

It was not the first time Mariel had arrived at a tournament to find no accommodations for unescorted, unmarried women. This one was no different. She had ridden three days to reach the fair, only to be relegated to the servants’ tent. And today, with a sore neck from sleeping poorly on the ground with a tree root jutting into her back, she needed to register as a contestant. A whole other challenge. For women were forbidden from participating.

The fair bustled with children racing to a puppet theater and buying buns from a vendor set up amid other challenges, like the stone toss and cart hauling. The children’s joust was taking place atop a padded beam over a pile of hay, young boys wielding wooden wasters instead of swords. And then there were the other tourney games. Stoolball was set to begin late morning, and Shinty was to be played the following day before the final rounds of the joust.

Ladies wearing velvet finery and embroidered overgowns, imported from France, meandered through the market, purchasing wares from local artisans. The sisters of Barking Abbey had traveled from London to sell dried herbs and embroidered kerchiefs. Men also milled about, indulging their ladies or inspecting crafts for purchase, leather pouches and metal goods, or they gathered around the stables to examine the horseflesh for sale.

But the knights, hulking warriors draped in surcoats denoting their colorful standards, were the most intimidating of the visitors. They seldom wasted time amongst the shopping stalls when there was a joust to prepare for, unless a particular lady, whose favors he wore, was looking at adornments. That, or they needed supplies. The knights, boxy and thick from carrying so much armor, were hardened men with crooked noses from inevitable breaks, their skin like leather. Sometimes there was a handsome one in the bunch, as Mariel knew well.

She pushed her way through the throngs of revelers until she reached the green-and-black striped archery tent fringed with crenulated trim. With a coin purse cinched about her wrist, she felt her coif to ensure it was in place, a worn hood of velvet with beaded trim that covered all of her hair except for the tail of her braid. It was as good as she could manage with her limited privacy and supplies. Smoothing the wrinkles from her skirts, she approached the tent.

A guard for the Earl of Huntington, a huge man by the look of it, stepped in front of her.

“No ladies permitted, Miss,” he said, shifting his quarterstaff so that it blocked her route around him.

“But I need…” She cut herself off. Her first reaction was always to come across as brash. Be demure, she reminded herself, fixing a smile on her face, and don’t forget your best English accent. “Sire, I have been tasked with entering my brother into the archery contest. I have coin to back up his intent.”

“Why did he not come himself?”

She bowed her head. “He is but a lad and shy at that. Only five and ten, but with the expertise of a marksman. He deserves to be entered, but as you can imagine, with so many men who are stronger and more experienced in attendance, well, it’s intimidating.” She smiled with a flirtatious bat of the eyes and an obvious assessment of the guard’s stronger and more experienced physique. Stronger was an understatement. The man was as tall as a tower and as broad as a battlement, with dusty blond hair and chiseled features. “Surely you can understand and make one wee”—she held her finger and thumb together to indicate her point—“exception.”

The soldier looked into her bright green eyes, his posture straightening, and grinned.

“I suppose I see no harm in one exception, Miss.”

She placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it, feeling her cheek dimple with a teasing grin. “My thanks, kind sire.”

His grin broadened, revealing fairly straight, clean teeth. “Should you be available for a walk this evening, I would be much obliged,” he offered, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested he might enjoy a kiss or more.

“If my brother has no need of me, then perhaps I could sneak away,” she answered, and she couldn’t help but think he indeed was a well-featured fellow.

“I’m off duty after the archery competition,” he added, pulling back the flap for her. “I shall wait for you.”

She brushed by him. A group of men sharing a goblet of wine together stood behind a desk positioned upon an imported carpet, a parchment ledger, quill pen, and inkwell placed neatly on its surface. Goodness, but height must be a requirement for the men at this fair. Surely there was a short one somewhere, though she had yet to find him. She straightened her shoulders as one by one they looked her way and their conversation and laughter ceased.

“Lady,” an older, distinguished man commenced, horribly fat, if truth be told. “I fear you’re in the wrong place. The guard should have directed you elsewhere.”

“I assure you I’m in the right place, my lord.” She nodded, giving a practiced but brief curtsy. She strode to the desk and clasped her hands together. “My brother, Elmer, wishes to be entered into the archery competition. I have come on his behalf to see that he is registered.”

All the men regarded her now. Her gaze skittered over them, a quick assessment she had learned long ago was necessary to decide any dangers. She could not outfight a large group of trained men, but she could usually outsmart them. Aside from the fat one addressing her, a man who clearly only nocked an arrow when the need for food arose—if he could even shoot; she smirked—the two others were relatively plain. Another donned a cloak embroidered with scarlet threading and sported a well-groomed beard, dark and trimmed, a handsome fellow.

Yet the hazel gaze of a brown-haired gent caught her eye. He is assessing me as I am him. He was tall, narrow of waist, and wide of shoulder. His tunic was somewhat untucked from his trousers and a leather coat hung open, revealing the gilded hilt of a sword, and—oh, now she blushed—quite the well-endowed codpiece.

He noticed her perusal, too, and lifted the corner of his mouth with humor.

And while all others had been required to disarm, she noted, glancing to the stack beside the flap, the hazel-eyed man retained his weapons: a dagger in his boot, one peeking from his sleeve, another opposite his sword, tucked into his belt and shielded by his coat, if the bulge at his hip was any indication. Though his disheveled clothing made no statement to his rank or title, it was finely tailored. He nodded once and gave a discreet salute with his goblet, watching her intently as she made her observations of his person.

Mariel returned her attention to the man now positioned behind his ledger.

“’Tis unconventional for a woman to enter on a man’s behalf,” he said.

Mariel tittered her most lady-like giggle. “He is hardly a man, my lord. A lad still, who has yet to have his final growth spurt and is nervous around so many accomplished men…such as yourself.”

“No man below the age of four and ten may enter,” the lord replied, his tone hardening.

“Perfect. Elmer is five and ten.” She included her soft smile this time. A smile that she had perfected to make men think a kiss was waiting on her lips. “Where should I sign? And the entrance fee is two shillings, no?”