Page 5 of An Earl for the Archeress

“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!”