Page 8 of An Earl for the Archeress

He flicked his finger to motion forth two more men, who took each of her arms while another untied her horse, stolen from her father’s stables, and led it away. She erupted into flailing, but they subdued her easily to the ground.

“No fighting, lad. We’ve a right to take you in.”

She was tossed upon another horse astride like a ragdoll, gasping at the roughness to her more feminine parts.

“I didn’t know whose lands these were,” she started.

“Well, doesn’t he sound like a pretty maid,” jested another soldier at the pitch of her voice.

She sneered at him, but the one in charge smacked the sneer from her face with a resounding hit.

“Show respect, lad.” The guard growled, grabbing her to steady her as she threatened to teeter off. “The earl makes it his business to know who trespasses.”

Her head spun, her eyes and nose watered, and stars spotted her vision, but she maintained herself without a single yelp. She supposed she should thank her father for that skill, for she was practically numb to such handling.

“You can enjoy accommodations compliments of the earl’s prison tower, until he wishes to see you,” the guardsman began, and they headed southward.

She fumed as the minutes in the saddle turned into hours. The earl was a bastard like all other men. He had tried to charm her the other day, giving her that light kiss, but he was a ruthless, selfish bastard like them all. She hated him, just like she hated her father, from now until eternity. If she were ever released, Robert of Huntington was now on her list of despicable men who she hoped to never see again. And Lord help the man, if ever she did encounter him.

By the time they broke through the trees onto a main route, she was delirious, her mind waning, her hair falling loose from its ties to lie in straggly strands around her face, and her hunger was beyond pain. They finally began to canter, which, thankfully, roused her from her stupor, and she looked up the path to see the grandest castle she had ever beheld. Rumors were that Huntington Castle rivaled that of King Richard’s, and now she could see why. Torchlight illuminated its proud walls. Turrets adorned the tops of the bastions at each corner with the earl’s black, green, and silver-fringed flags visible from the lights, and an imposing barbican housed the main portcullis, a wooden grate so thick she could see six men at work cranking it up as they approached, grinding its chains. Lord, but just the torchlight alone had to be a huge expense, for candles and oil did not come cheaply.

But just as she allowed her eyes to marvel at her new prison, she noticed the guards gathered at the gates. No. It could not be. The large and fair-faced guard who had stood vigilantly outside the archery tent at the contest now stood outside the gatehouse here. She ducked her head low, praying he didn’t recognize her, and thankfully, he was distracted before she passed him.

“A thief stealing His Lord’s game,” her escort said as they rode beneath the barbican and entered an outer yard.

Mutterings at her expense and some bored greetings between soldiers followed, and soon she was clearing the other side of an outer wall so thick it created a tunnel. It was late at night and the castle activity seemed to be concentrated solely in the great hall up ahead and through yet another portcullis giving way to the inner bailey. And if the boisterous fanfare, colors, music, and smells of feasting spilling from its main doors into the night were any indication, a celebration of the earl’s success was well underway.

No doubt his royal arseness, Huntington, was sitting upon his throne, being pleasured by two whores on each side. She scowled, remembering his smugness. But she was not afforded a view to determine if she was right.

The guards halted the horses, and she was dragged from the saddle. She willed her legs to work so the pressure of their grips under her arms didn’t hurt as much. They circumvented the main keep to a tower far to one side, past the inner houses and shops. Here, a lock was clanked open. She was pulled up a set of winding stairs to the turret and thrust into the darkened room. The heavy door was thrown shut, and a lock secured it.

“We’ll let the earl decide what to do with you, whelp,” a guard said. “You’re lucky His Lordship is soft on sods like you and doesn’t allow us to throw you in the pit.”

She stumbled against the dank wall and sank to the floor. The room smelled musty, like an old storage vault, and the only fresh air came from an arrow slit much too skinny to fit through, even in her growing state of emaciation. Pushing to her knees, she tried to see the inner workings of the castle below, but while the torches made the top of the castle glow, it washed everything beneath it in blackness.

And now a sob did escape her. She threw her hand over her mouth to stifle it in case the guards stood outside the door ready to taunt her. She pinched her eyes closed and bit back the horrid memories of her father locking her in his old guard tower for four days, to teach her not to cry for her mother during a thunderstorm. The memory sickened her, and though the all-too-familiar panic lodged in her throat and flooded her bloodstream, she breathed in, and out, in, and out, thinking of her days with the young priest, her only savior and tutor. She began the daunting ritual of recalling each lesson and shooting each arrow to count each number, the only tactic that ever calmed her mind.

How long it had been, she did not know. An hour? Two hours? More? But she woke when she was partway down the stairs of the turret, the same bloody guards who had dragged her up, now dragging her down. Her feet thumped each step and then scuffed through the dirt of the yard as she entered the piercing sun of midday. She pinched her eyes shut and actually moaned at the stabbing pain.

“I…I need water…please…” she croaked, no longer trying to mask either the feminine quality to her voice or the Scottish brogue she did so well to hide.

“The earl can decide if you drink or not, whelp,” a guard replied, and then she felt her body thumping up the stairs to the main keep.

The raucous sounds of the nooning meal hit her ears upon the door opening. More merrymaking, more food, more, more, more, and she could not have a single bite! This was the worst torture. Her head slumped forward as the two men held her aloft and dragged her down the main aisle between trestle tables, the crowds gossiping around her. They halted beneath the dais.

…

Robert threw down his quill pen in disgust, shoving to his feet and bracing his palms on his desk.

“How dare you?” he growled, and for once, the pompous Wesley had the decency to look ashamed. “How dare you throw a contest to my favor when we tied fairly?”

“My lord,” Wesley replied, clearing his throat. “The people enjoyed the spectacle. It made the fairgoers jovial, excited, and happy guests spend their coin more freely, which is indeed good for your coffers, sire−”

“I am indeed interested in maintaining my wealth, which I dare say, I am talented at achieving, but I’ll not have it on my conscience, that my money was unfairly procured.” Robert seethed, pointing at him. “If our arrows matched, as the others are now telling me, then the archer who challenged me deserved every penny of the winnings earned. And I care not your opinions on the lad’s sister who came to the archery tent. Swive all the men’s bums you wish, I care not your preferences, but your dislike for the lady clearly swayed your judgment.”

Wesley flinched at Robert’s blunt description and his cheeks reddened, though Robert ignored it.

“Your salary is being suspended for a sennight, and I will instead donate your earnings to the Creake Abbey almshouse, where poor beggars whose money is swindled from them often end up.”