Her Champion (Romantasy)

When you wish upon a star…

All romance novel photographer Payton Fox really wants is a hero in her life. A man that is dashing and honorable… a man worthy of his own fairy tale! One particularly frustrating evening she casts a fleeting wish upon a shooting star. She doesn’t actually believe anything will happen, but in the blink of an eye the man from her fairy tale wishes—a regular Robin Hood—materializes right before her. He even claims to be the legendary Lord of Loxley, and goes by the name of Archer. Uncertain what to believe, Payton is shocked when this hero rescues her time and again, and she can’t help but be swept off her feet. Slowly she accepts that this strange and noble man might truly be the fairy tale character of her dreams. Unfortunately, Archer isn’t connecting with the modern-day world and longs to return to his time. She also discovers that if he stays with her, his story will cease to exist.

Can she send him back, knowing he’ll take her heart along with him? Can she deprive the world of his story? How can she do that to those looking for their Champion - the perfect hero?

England, 1192

A bead of moisture trickled down Archer’s forehead, sliding along his cheek. The mail armor he wore nearly suffocated him on this sultry day. The sun constantly beating down upon him offered no respite. Not even the whisper of a wind blowing through the few trees scattered across the courtyard helped in cooling him.

Sobs echoed through the crowd, and heated murmurs of unfairness joined in. A hanging usually brought out the town folks from miles around. This was what the sheriff wanted—to make everyone aware that when he sent a decree to every town that taxes were to be paid regardless of the circumstances, he expected everyone to follow through.

Or be punished.

Which of course usually meant a hanging was close at hand.

Archer gripped the handle of the sword sheathed to his belt. In his opinion, today’s demonstration was unnecessary. Mr. Gittens didn’t make enough money for his small family to survive, let alone to pay the bloody taxes. But the sheriff pushed and pushed until he got what he wanted. People were frightened of him.

Well, most of them were, anyway.

Gritting his teeth, Archer tightened his fingers around the handle until the steel of his glove dug into his palm. More than anything, he wanted to stop this event from taking place. A part of him wished he was back fighting beside King Richard in the Holy Wars, and yet, Archer’s place was here in Nottingham. These people needed him desperately, and he couldn’t let them down.

He swung his gaze to Peter, a childhood friend who had followed Archer to the Holy Wars, and returned with honors. Peter had disguised himself as a beggar for today’s event in hopes that the sheriff wouldn’t notice him. Since their return from the Crusades one month ago, Peter had purposely irritated the sheriff by refusing to pay taxes. When the sheriff had tried to force the issue by sending his men to arrest Peter, he faked his death, making the sheriff believe the soldiers had killed him. Even Peter’s family didn’t know he was alive. They couldn’t or they’d be in danger, as well.

Trumpets blared as the sheriff made his grand entrance into the courtyard, casually stepping down each stone step as though he was taking a leisurely stroll through the flower gardens instead of facilitating a hanging. The self-assured grin on the so-called man of the law’s face grated on Archer’s nerves. After watching this man closely for a month, Archer couldn’t wait until the king returned and dismissed this certain ruthless sheriff from his position.

Archer had tried his best not to upset the sheriff while serving under him, because as the Lord of Loxley, it was required of him to be the sheriff’s puppet or chance losing his lands and title. The people of Loxley wouldn’t be able to deal with life without Archer’s assistance. He always went the extra mile for those well-deserving people, and in his own way, he protected them from the sheriff.

The Sheriff of Nottingham stopped on the middle step, folded his arms across his beefy chest, and bellowed, “Bring out the prisoner.”

From the side of the castle, old Mr. Gittens stumbled out of a door, followed by two of the sheriff’s soldiers, pushing him to hurry when he took small steps. Gittens’ hands were bound securely in front of him, and tears streaked down his dirty face. Watching in horror, his family sobbed into their hands, and voiced their disagreement about the injustice being done.

All of it was a wasted effort because the sheriff didn’t care. Never had. Never would.

The sheriff’s men directed Gittens to a wooden square frame where a hanging noose had already been fastened to a long beam. The old man stood on the stool just underneath as one of the soldiers looped the rope around Gittens’ head.

As Archer watched the family and heard their anguished cries for help, his heart tugged painfully. How he wished he could do something to stop the proceedings.

The Sheriff of Nottingham opened a parchment and cleared his throat. The crowd quieted as the man of the law began to read aloud.

“Let it be heard and known about the lands and realms of Richard, His Majesty, King of England, that on this the 14th day of June in the year of our Lord 1192, Jacob Gittens of Loxley has been tried and found guilty of stealing from the king by not paying his taxes. His sentence is to be hanged from the neck until dead.”

As one of the guards slipped a hood over Mr. Gittens’ head, his wife cried out and fell to her knees, her body shaking. Her grown children—two boys and three daughters—patted their mother’s shoulder, comforting her, the best they could.

Archer swung his gaze to Peter again. His friend stared at him, slowly shaking his head. Archer agreed with Peter, but there was nothing to be done about it. The sheriff controlled everything around here. As much as Archer didn’t approve of the sheriff’s antics, he couldn’t stop the man.

The one thing he’d done to help these poor people out was to sneak into the room where the sheriff kept most of the money he’d taken from the villages, and steal it back—giving it to the suffering people. Archer only took a little at a time, so the sheriff wouldn’t figure out the money was slowly disappearing. He knew he’d get caught one day and would have to pay dearly for it but until that moment came, he would continue to help the people in Loxley and in the neighboring villages.

The longer the drummer rolled out the beat, the more Archer’s palms sweat. His heart hammered along with the drum. Even Peter appeared fidgety. Archer prayed his friend wouldn’t do anything foolish.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the sheriff nod to the hangman. Archer held his breath. The hangman kicked the stool from underneath Mr. Gittens’ feet. The man dropped until the rope at his neck pulled taut and stopped him. His body jerked around as he tried to resist death.

Screams from the crowd grew louder. Archer wanted to shut his eyes and close off the sounds around him. Instead, he watched Peter. His friend was up to something, he just knew it.

Suddenly, Peter flipped back his cloak and grasped his bow and arrow. In one split second, he’d aimed and shot. The arrow sailed through the air and sliced the rope holding Gittens. The old man fell to the ground. His sons jumped to their father’s aid. Thankfully, the man was still alive. But Archer suspected it wouldn’t be for long.

However, he had other things to worry about now. Peter was now center of attention. This was bad. So very bad.

“Stop him,” the sheriff shouted to his soldiers, pointing at Peter.

Although Archer was adorned in the same mail armor that the other soldiers wore, he wouldn’t be one of them trying to stop Peter. Instead, he took a step backward.

Peter ran and was well ahead of the sheriff’s men, until he stumbled and fell. Instinctively, Archer took two steps to help, but then quickly stopped himself. He gripped the handle of his sword, praying he wouldn’t have to use it on the soldiers.

Peter jumped to his feet again, but he scrambled away with a noticeable limp. He would be no match for the others now. Peter quickly withdrew his sword, and tried fighting off those closing in around him.

Archer’s hopes sank. His friend needed assistance. But now he wasn’t close enough to aid Peter. By the time Archer made it to his side, his friend might be run through with a blade.

Taking a quick glance beside him, he noticed the bow and arrow strapped to another soldier’s arm and back. Without stopping to think about his actions first, he withdrew his sword and using the handle, brought it down hard on the man’s head. When he crumbled to the ground, Archer grasped the bow and arrow. In fluid movements, he added two arrows at once and positioned them before letting them fly in the air. They immediately connected with two of the sheriff’s men, killing them instantly. He slid his sword back in the sheath.

A loud gasp tore through the air. The Sheriff of Nottingham whipped around, piercing his glare at Archer.

“What is the meaning of this, Loxley?”

Archer ignored the man and shot two more arrows toward the soldiers. They hit their targets perfectly, bringing down two more of the sheriff’s men.

“Stop this, I say!” The sheriff lunged toward Archer, but he sidestepped the man, maneuvering quickly around everyone who stood in his way. “Lord Loxley? I command you to stop this instant,” the sheriff shouted.

Once again, Archer let the direct order fall on deaf ears. He had already started something that he shouldn’t have…and stopping would be futile now. He wouldn’t pause until he and Peter were well enough away from the castle and from the sheriff.

Still clutching the bow and arrows, Archer ran to his friend, but the cursed armor weighed him down considerably.

Peter stared at him and shook his head. “What are you doing? Now they know.”

“I couldn’t allow them to kill my friend.” Archer tugged on Peter’s arm as they continued to run.

The crowd in the courtyard screamed and darted each way, getting in Archer and Peter’s path. Up ahead of them, Gittens ran with his wife and daughters as his sons shot arrows toward the sheriff’s men. The sheriff’s voice rang louder, issuing commands to capture the fugitives.

Archer couldn’t help but chuckle. He was now considered an outlaw, just like them.

As they zig-zagged through the crowd, he yanked off his head gear. Cooler air finally touched his face, but with him moving so fast, his body was still very heated.
They made it to the castle gates. The extra space gave them the energy to run faster. Unfortunately, the sheriff’s men had retrieved their horses. Archer and Peter could be no match for that.

“This way,” Peter said as he darted around the side of the castle toward a grove of trees.

When Archer’s movements weren’t as fast because of his gear, Peter stopped and reached for his bow and arrow once again.

“I’ll keep the men away while you remove your armor. We’ll get nowhere with you dressed that way.”

As Archer tried to pull off his mail, Peter shot arrows at the soldiers following. Archer was grateful his friend was extremely skilled with the bow and arrow, just as he had been.

“We cannot outrun them.” Archer breathed heavily. “We shall need horses, as well.”

“I agree.” He shot another arrow, hitting the target dead-on. “I’ll allow one of them to get closer, and then grab the horse.” He peeked over his shoulder at Archer. “Haven’t you removed the armor yet?”

“I’ve been sweating. ‘Tis nearly impossible when I’m in a hurry.” Not only that, but the shirt and trouser underneath stuck to him like honey.

The whistle of an arrow sped near Archer’s head. He jerked back, barely missing getting shot. But when he heard Peter’s gasp followed quickly by a groan, Archer swung his attention to his friend. Peter’s expression was one of confusion as he stared at the arrow protruding from his chest.

“No!” Archer’s heart squeezed in pain as he jumped toward his friend.

“Get out of here. Now,” Peter rasped, motioning his hand for Archer to move away. “Run. I’ll keep them off the best I can. Lord of Loxley cannot be caught. Now go!”

“Peter—” Archer’s throat choked.

“Go, I say,” Peter snapped as he turned and aimed another arrow at the men on horseback.

Tears collected in Archer’s eyes. He grasped his bow and arrows and ran as fast as he could even with the mail armor still wearing him down. The sword swung from around his waist, also made running difficult.

Sadness encased him, and it was hard to breathe. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way he went through all of this just for Peter to die anyway.

He blinked away the tears blocking his vision as he headed for the grove of trees. He was still without a horse, but at least a man on foot could get through the trees faster than a man on horseback.

Not daring to glance behind him to see his friend or how many more men Peter had killed, Archer rushed into the trees. He wasn’t out of danger yet. The pounding of horse’s hooves rumbled on the ground. Panic swept through him faster.

He feared unless a miracle happened sometime soon, he would be joining his friend in Heaven.

His chest burned with pain from his heavy breaths, but he kept running. He reached a hill, and practically stumbled down, gaining more speed as he went. The corner of his gaze caught a tree as he passed, and especially the hollow hole at the trunk. Several broken branches lie nearby.

Quickly, his mind pieced together a hideout—if only momentarily.

He stopped, grabbed the broken leafy limbs, and dove inside the trunk, pulling the branches with him for shelter.

He stayed still, even though his heartbeat sped faster than the horses that had been following him. When the pounding on the ground grew closer, he tried to calm his breathing, but it was nearly impossible.

Soon, the riders passed his hiding place. The good Lord above must be protecting him, because none of the riders stopped or even slowed. Still, Archer didn’t dare move. Not yet. They may return, and he couldn’t take the chance of being caught. He feared because of what he’d done in front of the sheriff that man wouldn’t want to just hang him. Indeed, that man would want to torture the Lord of Loxley first just to prove his point to the town.

Time passed, but he didn’t know how long he’d been in this tree trunk. However, he was hotter now than when he’d been wearing the mail armor earlier. Moisture dripped down his face as though it were raining outside. He swept his long hair back on his head, hoping it would help bring some coolness to his skin.

But it didn’t matter how hot he was. He wouldn’t move until he felt safe.

Quietly as he could, he situated himself on the ground until he sat on his bottom, knees bent in front of him as his feet were flat on the ground. Sighing, he rested his head against his knees. Images of Peter’s last expression and recalling his last words brought a lump to Archer’s throat. He’d never forgive himself. His friend’s death should have been avoided. Archer should have done something… Acting sooner than he had in the courtyard might have done the deed. Of course, now he’d never know.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his senses were on alert at anything and everything. Memories assailed him of Peter fighting beside him in the Crusades. Such a fearsome warrior. Such a heroic man. There should have been a better way to die for someone so noble and courageous. In fact, Peter should have lived to be a very old man.

Voices in the distance brought Archer alert and he held the broken leafy branches tighter against the tree. He prayed the shadows in the hollow of the tree would hide him well enough.

As he waited, dusk slowly covered the ground. Soon, they wouldn’t be able to see very clearly. Most likely, the soldiers would retreat back to the castle in Nottingham.

The horses came into view. He held his breath, pulling back as much as he could. Six riders trotted their horses so near to the tree, he could smell their sweat and practically taste the dust on his tongue.

“He could not have disappeared into thin air,” one of them said briskly, sounding out of breath.

“I think it was farther down the hillside where we lost him,” another one spoke.

“He’s hiding, I just know it.”

“Remember men,” one with a strong voice said, “Lord Loxley fought in the Crusades. He is probably very crafty. I’m certain he is close by. We just need to find him.”

“It’s getting late,” a man said softer than the others. “If we don’t find him now, we won’t once the sun sets.”
“But if we don’t bring him back to the sheriff, I fear what our fates will be, and I do not want the sheriff running a blade through me.”

The others grumbled in agreement.

They weren’t going to give up easily, Archer was certain. Many times he’d been in situations where he was nearly killed while fighting in the Holy Wars, yet something always happened to free him. He’d either used his quick wit or his skills with the sword or bow and arrow. Unfortunately, now he couldn’t use any of them. Six against one were not good odds.

Closing his eyes, he prayed for a way out, knowing this would be the one time God wouldn’t answer his prayers.