Good fortune shined upon her, and on a hunting trip, no less. She’d set out for a morning check of her snares — empty, as of late — and stumbled upon a monstrous fallow buck. If she managed to take it down, it would ease the hunger pangs of the people in her village of Hawkhurst, what was left of them. Ravaged by the black death no more than some forty years prior, the many villages of Kent had yet to recover. And now, by order of the King, the people had been left to die in squalor — nearly a thousand less in only a month’s time. And for what? Tactless attempts to enforce collection of taxes so high no honest man could pay, all to fund a war founded on greed. A grunt in the bush brought her back to the task at hand. Food. Her stomach grumbled at the mere notion of a hot meal. She’d grown weary of her spotty diet of berries and vermin. Venison would be a welcome treat. She’d noticed her draw arm growing weary while hunting excisemen. The accompanying tremor could cost her her life.
