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An Earl for the Archeress
by E. Elizabeth Watson

Copyright © 2017 by E. Elizabeth Watson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

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 doublet 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 doublet, 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?”

“The contestant must register. Tell your brother to come in person and declare himself. Otherwise, leave. Men are conducting business here.”

She heard the gossiping of a huddle of women nearing the tent. They bustled through the flap, silencing when they saw her. Mariel turned to see that they were scantily-clad prostitutes. She turned slowly back to face the men and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It had always been her younger sister’s complaint that she rolled them overmuch, thus inviting their father’s wrath to descend upon her.

“Oh yes, gentle lords. Conducting business indeed. Is that what we call swiving now?”

A few of the men appeared to appreciate her sense of humor and chuckled.

“Woman, you test my patience.” The fat man growled.

“But my brother deserves to be entered.”

“I told you. He must come in person. No other negotiations!”

“But―”

“Let her register him,” the hazel-eyed man with the handsome codpiece spoke, cutting off her complaint.

She looked back at him and their eyes connected. His gaze glittered with amusement even though his face was impassive.

“I beg your pardon, sire,” said his man.

“I said, let her register him. If anything, this should make for a good mystery.”

“Your father would have tossed her out,” the man said.

“Or tossed her in his bed,” muttered the one with the scarlet cloak as he took another drink.

“My dear man, Wesley. My father is dead. You should need no other reminder than that.” The hazel-eyed man’s words remained good-natured, but Mariel heard the threat clearly. “Miss.” He turned to her. “See that Elmer arrives promptly after the nooning meal to the champ de tir.”

Mariel forced a polite nod and attempted to smile again, but she knew it looked strained at best. “Thank you, my lord. As I was asking, is it two shillings?”

The stodgy man keeping the ledgers folded his arms with indignation. “Three.”

“But I have it on account from the other contestants that the fee is only two.”

“Those archers registered themselves in person. Elmer did not. Therefore, it’s three shillings for being a coward. Take it or leave it.”

She scrutinized the older man’s face, his pursed lips, and anger boiled in her chest as the other men watched, smirked, and shared superior looks with one another. All except the man with hazel eyes and wavy brown hair hanging to his chin in roguish disarray. He was studying her, and she couldn’t help but think he could read her indecision about parting with her coin. That, and he kept looking at her hands. Did he suspect?

She pondered him, feeling the urge to work the ends of her ribbon tied about her wrist with nervous fingertips. On an exhale, she opened her purse strings and pulled out the last three shillings to her name. “Very well. If I must. Though I would like it noted that your tactic is unfair.”

“Say what you like, girl, as long as you remove yourself first.”

That is it. She fumed. With her cheeks blooming heat and a scowl springing to life, she slapped the three coins onto the table. Without asking, she shifted his ledger to her and dipped the quill in the ink to scrawl the name Elmer Crawford.

“Chivalry is apparently dead, old man, and you are nothing but a highway robber,” she snapped, and whirled around to shove her way through the prostitutes blocking the exit. “There! I am removed!”

***

“Crazed wench,” said the bookkeeper, shaking his head. “I bet she’s death to live with, Lord Huntington.”

“Quite the saucy one,” said the man with the scarlet cloak. “Subduing her abed would be an entertaining challenge.”

“A job you are willing to burden yourself with, no doubt,” jested one of the other men. “If not for her forked tongue, she was quite lovely. Lower ranking, if her gown is any indication. Perhaps a barony. Perchance that means she can be trifled with.”

Lord Huntington walked toward the tent flap and pulled it back, watching the woman in the velvet and beaded coif march away, then glanced at his cousin in the scarlet-trimmed cloak who understood all too well the smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. The girl had been pretty, trimly shaped, unlike the voluptuous whores now making eyes at him, though her breasts were of a womanly size, soft and lush. He would have liked to have seen her hair, too, hidden as it was.

“A mystery indeed,” he said under his breath, then passed his goblet to the nearest set of hands. “Well, men. I make it a point to know all the participants in a contest. I should like to meet this Elmer.” He let the tent flap fall shut behind him and strode after her.