Quiver

QUIVER

By: S.L. Naeole

QUIVER

© 2011 by S.L. Naeole

All rights reserved.

Published by Crystal Quill Publishing at Smashwords.

All of the situations and characters in this novel are fictional. Any similarities to actual people or situations are completely coincidental and wholly unintentional.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

S.L. Naeole

Visit my website at www.slnaeole.com

Cover font by www.kevinandamanda.com

To all the girls who found the hero in themselves.

"…neither a knight nor a peasant or 'husbonde' but something in between."

Unknown

PROLOGUE

Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire, England 1188

The travelers’ eyes moved like flies hovering over a rotting corpse. The stench of fate was thick and heavy despite the heavily perfumed trees that dipped and bowed their blessed branches above the heads of the weary travelers. Though they dressed like commoners, their pockets jingled and their fingers dazzled with the truth of their nature, their wealth smelling the most pungent of all.

Three rode in a single carriage glistening in lacquer, while the others rode atop horses so fine only a fool would believe their riders were peasants. The clanging of metal against metal heard where no metal could be seen hinted that beneath the dusty breeches lay mail and armor. Long coats of wool hid the sharpened points of swords that lay against legs which tensed as each tiny sound, each crack of a twig reminded them of their environment.

For even as they watched the trees, the trees watched them.

Atop a heavy branch high above the travelers’ heads, a smile formed in a face shrouded by a dark hood. One hand gripped the branch not for balance, but to encourage patience. The other hand held within it the curve of a longbow, the wood stained a magnificent black, the string tight and ready. Numbers passed in the spy’s head, counting the riders and assessing each one as they approached. The spy could tell by the way the riders carried themselves that this caravan of travelers did not contain simple peasants moving from one village to another. The spy exhaled deeply. The riders reacted with their horses when the animals picked up the stranger’s scent.

As the spy watched, the riders’ hands moved to their sides in unison, a move that went beyond instinct. This was training. The spy knew training.

With deliberate and almost painful slowness, the spy released the branch. As the horses neared fifty yards, the scent grew stronger and their nervousness displayed itself in stressed snorting and stamping of hooves into the leaf-covered path. The spy pulled out an arrow from the leather quiver that was strapped to its calf. With an almost cavalier motion, the spy allowed the arrow to nock onto the bow’s string and, just as casually, pulled back on the string. The spy’s eyes locked onto one person, the driver of the carriage.

The driver heard only the sudden call of a bird before consciousness fled his body and he fell to the ground. The forest lit up with life. Dirty woolen capes were discarded quickly, and the riders on horseback brought up their hidden swords as they prepared to protect the treasure they now revealed they guarded. But as the forest floor filled with the sound of birds in flight, the soldiers fell like trees, one after the other, arrows jutting out of their bodies like grotesque quills stripped of all but the tips of three feathers.

Only the riders who had no weapons were spared, but as their animals caught whiff of blood and death, they began to scream and rear, tossing them off like ants on a pie. The driverless carriage jolted forward and the spy leapt, landing easily atop the carriage’s roof and crawled down to the seat like a spider on a wall. The reins dangled dangerously between the hindquarters of the spooked animals, but the spy did not feel any concern. The bow still in the spy’s hand became an extension of its arm, and the spy looped the reins atop its end like a hook and pulled them in. Once the reins were in the spy’s hands, the horses, immediately sensing the lack of slack and loss of autonomy, began to slow.

Good boys, the spy said, patting the horses’ rears when they came to a stop.

The sound of celebration surrounded the carriage as half a dozen men arrived, their eyes sparkling with victory at this latest catch. In the hands of one, a bag of coins jingled.

What have you got there, Paddy? the spy asked, looking at the bag appreciatively.

Sounds like dinner, the man said, his smile revealing several missing teeth and a grin that could scare even the blindest of crows away.

Aye, and a fine meal it’ll be at that, the spy agreed.

Let’s open the carriage! a voice rang out, and soon others followed in agreement.

The spy held up its hands and nodded. All right, all right. With a tight grip upon the carriage door’s metal handle, the spy pulled. Inside, the faces of two women and a young boy stared out, fear and shame staining their faces.

Please don’t hurt us, the boy said, his small chest puffing up in an attempt to intimidate the band of thieves that stood outside their carriage.

I don’t hurt children, the spy said with an impish grin.

But you killed our guards, one of the girls said. She was the younger of the two, the spy surmised, and the most headstrong to throw out an accusation such as hers.

They are not dead, the spy laughed. They shall awaken in an hour or two with a horrible headache and rather bruised prides, but trust me when I say that they are not dead. We may be thieves, but we are not murderers.

I don’t believe you, the girl challenged. You’re a horrible, horrible man who’s come to rob us and take our virtue. My father’s told me about you. The hooded Robin, stealing from the wealthy to pay for your sins. Drunkards, all of you. You think to steal our gold and buy your way into heaven as you violate us with your presence and your touch? Well, I won’t let you, you hear me! I’ll die first!

Though barely taller than a sapling, the girl hurled herself out of the carriage, her sole intent to strangle the life out of the spy and see that smirk die along with him. She did not see the arms come out to catch her, or hear the screams of her brother and sister. Instead, she could only glare as the spy laughed – laughed! – at her failed attempt at assassination.

That was brave. You should be commended for such bravery. But I feel that I must correct you, darling, for you see, we do not steal from the wealthy to pay for our sins. We steal from the wealthy to pay for yours.

Ours? The girl scoffed at the offense. And what sins have we committed? We were born as God intended, with wealth and title that he withholds from the poor because they are born from sin.

Is that what you have been taught? You poor, poor, misinformed girl. Your sins are many, but your ignorance I find to be the most disastrous of all to your soul, the spy chastised. Families such as yours have been stealing from the poor and taking from them their homes, their lands, even their children. Children who were born with God’s blessing. You take their food, their livelihood, and you use your ill-gotten gains to purchase the souls of soldiers to guard you from the very people you’ve robbed, some of them their own families. So we take the money back, and we use it to buy food and supplies for the victims of your...wealth and title.

The spy stepped forward and pressed a finger to the girl’s chin, pushing it up so that her eyes were visible. They were pretty, and the spy could not help but appreciate them for their beauty.

You are young yet, so there is still time for you to learn that the truth that our parents raise us on is not the truth of the world. A person who steals isn’t always bad. And a person who is rich isn’t always good. What you see isn’t always what it seems.

As the girl struggled against the hands of the men who held her pinned against the carriage’s side, the spy stepped back. There is also one other thing that I must correct you on. You see, you were wrong when you said that I was a horrible, horrible man. I have done many horrible things, true. I’m certain that the list some of my men here could form would stretch to the sea and back. But I have not ever, and will never, be a man.

With swift hands, the spy pulled back the hood that shielded its face from full view. The girl felt her breath leave her body and she stared, eyes and mouth agape like a fish on a hook as the spy’s hair fell out in long, dark waves. And the mouth that had seemed frozen in that rather smug grin suddenly appeared feminine. This was, indeed, no man who terrorized the countryside with his attacks. This was a woman who courted with eyes that were large and wide on a face that wasn’t conventionally beautiful but still striking all the same. She wore no baubles other than a pendant against her throat that revealed a stag with a laurel crown and two crossed arrows within its center floating above the stag’s antlers. The air of confidence she exuded filtered out any objections to her appearance with one simple, tip-tilted smile.

The hooded Robin, King among Thieves, was actually a Queen.

CHAPTER ONE

Astridge Hall, Nottinghamshire, England – 1557

I do not care for your opinion, Phoebe.

But you should care, Father. I am your daughter, your only child. I am the only family you have and as such, I deserve to have you respect what opinions I do share with you.

Nineteen-year-old Phoebe Locke glared at her father through dark eyes, her lids lowered half a drop in silent interrogation. She watched as he signed yet another document that had been placed before him, while the one that had lain just beneath was whisked away to be folded and readied for its seal. The flow of such things was smooth and swift, like a river of responsibilities that waded through his dam.

In most things, I do respect your opinion, Phoebe, but in this I do not. Michael Locke, the tenth Earl of Astridge sighed. He looked up at his daughter, his blue eyes glittering with amusement and annoyance as he inspected his dark-haired child. She reminded him so much of her mother, whose dark features showered themselves upon his lovely, if not beautiful daughter while his own golden hair and light eyes seemed a distant thing.

Your future is not for you to decide. What is done is done. When Wendell arrives this evening, we shall go to the chapel and you shall sign the betrothal agreement like a dutiful daughter and begin to make plans for your wedding in a year’s time.

Phoebe stamped her foot. Why couldn’t I have chosen for myself? This isn’t some maid’s life you’re plotting out, Father. This is my life, my future, my happiness. Am I not allowed a say in who I marry, who I make the father of my children? Who I make the father of your grandchildren?

No. When it comes to the safety and the future of my family, I shall not entrust it in the hands of someone as reckless and headstrong as you, my dear. Your actions in the past have proven time and time again that I cannot look to you to make the best of decisions. We’re still trying to recover from the last time.

I only set fire to the lower half of the east wing. Phoebe sighed, bored. And it was an accident. How was I supposed to know that the chambermaid was carrying that lit lamp? No one ever goes to the east wing anymore and I wanted to practice my skating.

Michael groaned, the smell of charred wood and drapes still fresh in the air. You weren’t skating. You were…sliding on the wooden floor in your stockings after coating it with oil – which I still don’t understand.

There’s no friction that way. It makes for a much slicker surface and smoother slide, Phoebe explained.

Annoyed, her father slammed his fist on his desk. It doesn’t matter. The point is that you’ve shown yourself to be impetuous and irresponsible. To let you choose a husband would be akin to me letting you coat all of the floors with oil and then letting you run around with a torch. Besides, you like Wendell. You’ve stated as much to me several times over the course of the past year, and I see no reason why that affection cannot gradually grow to include love. He is a fine match for you, he is tied to one of the wealthiest families in all of Nottinghamshire, and with his ties to the Queen, you shall not be in wanting of anything for he is in a place where he will advance quite rapidly in power.

I said that I liked him less than I did throwing up, she mumbled before looking directly at him and seeing that he wasn’t even paying attention. Father, I–

Michael held his hand up while continuing to go over the papers before him on his desk, a commanding gesture that silenced Phoebe’s protest immediately. There is nothing more to be done or said, Phoebe. You will go to your apartments and prepare for the ceremony. I shall see you hence.

With a curt nod, Phoebe turned on her heel and left her father’s study. The door closed behind her, a well-placed doorman serving his purpose rather well. Three steps, four, six, and Phoebe finally exhaled.

You’ll see me hence, my ass, she breathed before heading toward the stairs, taking them three at a time until she reached the landing and turned toward the hall where the nursery lay. I’ll be twenty in six months, and six months after that, a bride? I think not. If I cannot choose whom I marry then I shall not marry at all.

She flew through the two large doors that opened into a grand room paneled in soft, pale blue silk – a hopeful, yet dreary reminder that Phoebe was always meant to be a son. If you want wimpy Wendell as a son-in-law, I suggest you start looking for some poor orphan girl to adopt because I have my heart set elsewhere.

Through an ivory door, Phoebe entered a large, lush room filled with the colors of roses in bloom. The scent of them filled the sun-lit space and Phoebe sneezed.

Goddamned roses, she cursed, her eyes tearing up at the cloying odor. I. Hate. Roses! I despise everything about them. She grabbed the vase that sat atop a grand dresser and threw it at the damask-covered wall. The dark stain that spread offered little comfort, and Phoebe sighed when a familiar figure rushed in from the dressing chamber off to the right side of the room, her head shaking from the commotion.

It’s your fault, you know. The roses have been blooming quite nicely in the gardens for the past several years because of your…contribution. In any case, those were handpicked by your fiancé. One of the newer maids came in with them on his orders to gift them to you with strict instructions that they be placed in your room. I had been meaning to be rid of them but I can see you’ve already taken care of that.

He’s not my fiancé, Phoebe spat.

Lilith John shook her head at her young friend and wiped her hands on the apron that covered her plain service gown. I suppose you’ll be wanting me to clean that up?

Phoebe’s dark head swayed back and forth, a denial on her lips, and knelt down, pulling the skirt of her kirtle up to catch the shattered pieces of porcelain that so resembled her heart’s current state. I’m sorry, Lil. I’ll clean it up, don’t worry about it. She ignored the flowers, the damaged blossoms scattering their petals across the floor like large, blood-colored tears. When she was certain that most of the pieces of pottery were removed, she stood and walked toward the fireplace, emptying the shards into the ashes that sat there waiting to be collected.

Are you still vexed about the ceremony tonight?

Phoebe looked at her friend and nodded once more. Father just won’t see things my way. He thinks that twenty is a perfectly respectable age to get married, and that Wendell and I will have the perfect life together.

"Your peers have all been married at least a year; some even have children. Twenty isn’t so unreasonable.

Ugh, I don’t care if it’s unreasonable or not. He doesn’t care that I don’t love Wendell, or that the last person I would ever marry would be that talking chamber pot. All he cares about is power.

Lilith’s breath came out in a long, slow exhale as she walked up to her friend and wrapped a comforting arm around her. You know that this has always been your lot in life, Phoebe. It is the price you pay for being a child of nobility.

"I envy you, Lil. You can marry whomever you choose, live where you want, wear what you want, do what you want."

Lilith’s snort of disapproval was loud and startling as she pulled away. "Is that what you think? Yes, how wonderful it is to be able to marry someone with no money, live in whichever gutter hovel I so choose, and do whatever it is I want to try and keep the stink of poverty from turning my cheerful disposition into one more similar to yours. You ought not make comments about things you do not understand, Phoebe.

You have the luxury of never going hungry, never being cold, never having to choose between which child eats and which child does not. I grew up with ten brothers who all ate more in one bite than I got in an entire meal, and because I was the only girl I slept alone, without a warm body to keep the chill from my bones when the last log burned out. You want choices? Be a man. If you want to stay warm and fed, you’ll be a good girl and do as your father tells you.

Phoebe stared wide-eyed at her friend, surprised by her sudden turn in opinion. Was this not the same person who just hours earlier, before the morning sun had even begun to fill the rooms with their brightness, conspired to help her run away?

Phoebe, why are you not getting ready?

The voice of her father, so stern and unbending, acted like a whiplash, snapping Phoebe’s head back and turning her to face his angry expression.

Father, I-I…

It is nerves, my lord, Lilith said from behind the shocked girl. She’ll be dressed right and proper before the ceremony, just as you ordered.

Thank you, Lilith. It is good to know that there are still people I can depend upon in this house. My only child has manipulated the entire staff here to her suiting and I do not appreciate it. His eyes roamed over the opulence he had gifted to his only child, the riches that he had been afforded by his service to his king and now his queen. The sacrifices he had made to ensure that his daughter would never want for anything seemed to have gone unnoticed by her, unappreciated, and he was not willing to accept that any longer.

Phoebe, the ceremony begins at sundown. If you are not there, if you are even a second late, you will never step foot out of this room again until your wedding day.

Michael retreated from the room, the slamming of the two doors fronting the nursery rattling the portraits upon the wall. Phoebe, shaking at her father’s threat, turned to brand her friend with a look of betrayal but stopped when she saw the wicked glint of mischief in Lilith’s eyes. With a wink, the saucy redheaded maid retreated to the dressing chamber. She returned with a bundle of black fabric and handed it to her friend.

I’ll ring for the bath and for a fire to be set. You go and change into these quickly. Do not forget your cloak. After the bath has been brought up, we shall leave through the servants’ entrance.

Phoebe took the bundle and left her friend, walking into the large dressing chamber and quickly began unlacing her sleeves. With deft hands, she undid the laces at her back, her long fingers able to grasp the silken strands with ease. She pulled the emerald gown over her head, taking with it the pale ivory kirtle that had lain beneath. Standing in her chemise and corset, Phoebe quickly pulled from the black bundle a pair of dark hose. She slipped them over her legs, the opaque color doing away with the pale sheen of her skin, and tucked her chemise into the waist, pulling the drawstring closed around her. She followed the hose with a pair of leather breeches and tied those in place with a matching leather thong. Over her corset she pulled on a black linen shirt, followed by another, and finally a doublet padded especially to hide her womanly curves.

She ran through the unadorned buttons quickly and then pulled on the boots that stood beside her dressing chair. The soft, black leather tops reached to her thighs, and she said a prayer of thanks that they also hid her slim legs. The hem of the doublet passed the boot tops, effectively hiding her feminine shape from view.

A commotion outside alerted Phoebe to the arrival of the servants, and she peeked her head out, spying the small wooden tub being brought in front of the fire that was now glowing in its blackened cave. A steady line of servants poured bucket after bucket of steaming water into the tub, and after Lil checked the depth and temperature, they were promptly shooed out.

Phoebe?

Phoebe emerged from the shadows of the dressing chamber, and Lil smiled with pride. You look like the mistress of death.

Right now I shall settle for the mistress of escape, Phoebe replied with a nervous laugh. I cannot find my hood anywhere.

Lil pushed past her and began rifling through the numerous cloaks that hung in the wardrobe. It isn’t here. Perhaps I sent it to be cleaned. It is too late to check. You had better find something to cover your hair quickly.

Phoebe did not need any further encouragement. She rushed to her bed and dug beneath the mountain of pillows that sat beneath the heavy brocade coverlet. With a triumphant smile, her hand emerged with a dark black cap. With a practiced flair, Phoebe tucked her hair beneath the cap and pulled it down over her eyes.

It is a good thing your father agreed to let you forego the wearing of those ridiculous headpieces, Lil remarked as she tied two rolls of wool together with a ribbon. I hate doing your hair. I hate it beyond reason.

It could be far worse, you know. I, at least, wash my hair, Phoebe reminded her before taking the rolls before her and tucking them beneath her arm.

Oh, do not remind me, Lil groaned. Sara could not stop lamenting over the stains she had to remove from the bed linens the last time your father had guests.

Phoebe’s eyes rolled. Bathing had always been such a pleasure for her, and she could not comprehend why the aristocracy felt it perfectly acceptable to mask their odor with expensive perfumes which did nothing but add a sickly sweetness to the pungent combination of sweat, skin, and who knows what else. I don’t care if it’s considered sinful; I cannot stand the notion of merely washing my hands and my face and leaving my hair to rot with dirt and stink.

A hard thump, followed by a slamming of the armoire’s doors forced Phoebe’s face to turn toward the empty spot where her friend had stood. Lil?

There are moments, Phoebe Eleanor Robin Locke, when I wonder just why it is that we are friends.

An angry expression had come over Lil’s round face, the red in her cheeks darkening as she tried to contain the slow, boiling rage that sat just beneath her skin. This did not go unnoticed by Phoebe.

Lil, did I say the wrong thing again? Oh, I’m always doing that, aren’t I? I have that knack about me, I suppose. It’s like a disease…

You say far too much that you should not, Phoebe. But…I have to remember that it was what also saved me from a turn in the stocks.

Phoebe’s hand dashed out to grab