by Anne Beggs
Everyone returned to work as quietly as possible so as not to miss a word.
“You’ll marry,” Muireann said flatly, “or the Church. Until then you’re a child, my Maid Princess,” Muireann scowled. “Now don’t keep your mother waiting.”
“You’ll have us all in trouble,” Sean warned. “Nurse too.”
Eloise frowned. Guilt on top of scolding, and she the sole heir to Dahlquin! How dare they? Shuffling out, her frown turned to a pout. They dared because…because she acted like a child, not a leader. And they cared about her, she reflected as she and her hounds left to join her mother in the herb garden, ledger forgotten.
The growing season was barely upon them, the pantries exhausted from the winter and Easter celebrations. Unlike the pleasure parks and gardens of wealthier estates Eloise heard of in stories, the ladies of Dahlquin retreated to this working herb garden. It was vibrant and green with fresh parsley, mint and thyme. White flowered raspberry bushes fluttered with bees. Eloise’s two large hounds lay outside the small garden, waiting patiently in the June sun, while her mother’s wee dog Dilis dug for rodents and watched for birds.
“Mathair, do you think our guests have been to France?” Before Aine could answer, Eloise suggested, “Or Rome? Might they have seen the Pope?”
“Mayhap.” Her mother started cutting sprigs of parsley.
“Are they fair of face? What do you think?”
“Eloise,” Aine said putting down her knife. “They’re strangers. We’ll feed them and offer shelter, as our Savior Jesus would command. Tonight we shall learn their purpose.”
“What fun!” Eloise exclaimed with eyes closed, picturing the banquet.
“There is much work to do between now and then,” her mother said.
“Work, work, work,” Eloise grumbled, rocking back on her heels to observe the herb garden. “It is bountiful,” she added. New pride in accomplishment made her smile. This herb garden was laid out in a small, sunny location. The stone wall was covered at one end by a rose bush, with exquisite pink flowers in late spring and large red hips in fall, so important through the winter months. The other end had a vine, which provided luscious grapes in fall and tender leaves in spring, if the near-continuous rain didn’t cause too much rot. Outside the castle the farmers tended orchards, more herbs and the crops that sustained them. Flax, horses, cattle, sheep and valuable green marble were the commodities for trade.
Eloise carefully filled a basket with blue borage flowers. A refreshing treat, the flowers garnished most any dish, or dipped in warm honey were a pretty display on a pudding.
“What benefit, Eloise?” her mother asked, pointing to the borage stalks.
Eloise didn't hear her mother's question about the curative properties of borage. Her mind was elsewhere. She snipped some rosemary sprigs and began to weave a wreath including borage flowers, calendula and violets.
“Mathair, how wonderful it must be to move about like our guests,” Eloise contemplated, wishing to travel, see things, and have new experiences. She couldn’t put words to the restlessness that stirred her soul. “I've never been anywhere.” She placed the wreath upon her mother’s head, and her mother patted her hand in a silent gesture of thanks.
“Eloise,” her mother repeated, “borage. What curative properties?”
Eloise looked at her mother. Why such a stern gaze? she wondered, starting a wreath for her own head.
“Borage porridge,” Eloise said, flustered at her mother's insistence that every moment of every hour of every day must consist of lessons and drills and ledgers and spinning. Endless spinning. When she would rather be on a horse. Such blessings: Riding, traveling and exploring.
“That stag you killed is not a replacement or substitute for your lessons and responsibilities.”
Could her mother read her mind? Eloise wondered.
Aine tried again. “Eloise, you have many,” she paused, “gifts, talents. But you have to practice. Hone your skills.”
“But I want-” Eloise tried to interrupt.
“Eloise,” Aine said, her voice rising. “You ride well. Exceptionally well. You have become part of the horse, by rote practice and drill.”
Eloise felt herself smile with the compliment. Did her mother finally understand?
“You have the healing gift, Ellie. Deny it all you wish, but you have been called. You can’t look away any more than I can.”
Eloise took a deep breath and let out a long, exaggerated sigh.
“But you must study, memorize your botanicals and remedies…” her mother continued.
At times like this, healing felt like a curse. Medicine was a dangerous art. Both men and women might be held accountable if a patient had an undesirable outcome. Their mortal enemy, and neighbor, Scragmuir falsely accused her and her saintly Lady Mother of heresy. Though baptized and indoctrinated in the Church since birth, Eloise couldn’t help but question. There were so many inconsistencies, mistruths, infallibility. She cringed, remembering the blood at her mouth. Guilt of the Huntress. What did that mean? Her mother hadn’t an answer, other than to say: “You are Dahlquin.” And what did that mean?
“…managing your own estate, tending your own husband and children.”
“Hmmm,” Eloise said hesitantly, “but... it won’t…I can’t....” She stopped. Could she just continue like this? Most girls her age were long since married off. Eloise was not in a hurry to be sold into such domestic slavery - at least not with the prospects her father pursued. Argh! Men as old as or older than he was, with titles and estates far from Dahlquin. The young ones were not better. Weak and simple minded, less educated and easily manipulated, without an original thought or action to their credit. She would be trading paternal confinement for a that of a spouse. Plus, she had a reputation herself: a heretic, sorcerer, an outspoken child, disrespectful, too educated, and skinny. Let’s not forget bad luck. She was betrothed at birth, but the young Lord of Leinster had died as a child. Scragmuir and their bonded families called her Lord Father the Brother-Murdering Barbarian. They still accused her father of murdering his own half-brother, as well as mutilating one of his dearest comrades, High Lord FitzGilbert’s brother, Elroth.
“Eloise, this is what you were born to,” her mother said, indicating their garden and beyond. “You have talent, skill. Would you rather break your back in the fields, or a brothel? God has favored you.” Aine stood and moved to tend the rose.
“And I have gratitude,” Eloise answered. “Truly I have, but Cambridge or Paris are not so far away. Ireland should have a grand school-”
“Not today, I’ve too much on my mind with these strangers,” her mother interrupted. “University isn’t for females. The abbey is not your destiny.” This was an old argument between them.
“Dahlquin is my home, not my prison.”
“Prison? You go too far,” Aine countered. “What convict rides a fine courser to her heart’s content or plays with such dogs as you have? With privilege comes duty,” Aine said, continuing to pinch back her rose.
Eloise sighed. She was the only daughter and heir to Dahlquin. The esteem and vastness of the lands were nothing to scoff at, strategic, too. Her title alone made her a valuable token. She hated that, being viewed as a piece of flesh to be bartered.
“We have a banquet. You and I are to be hostesses. By your will, Ellie, I need you well-mannered and-,” her mother dropped the rest. “By your will,” she implored.
The two worked on in silence until Aine declared they were done.
Eloise clapped her hands together to get the dirt off her gloves and tucked them into her apron. “By your will, the banquet,” she brightened, travel and education forgotten. “With handsome strangers, singing and dancing. Let’s go,” she chirped merrily.
Lord Hubert sat back in his chair. One of his hounds dozed behind him, the other at his feet under the meeting table. Today had been a drill day and he had dressed in his brown and grey tunic, hauberk and studded boots. He and his men were pra
cticing at the quintain in the inner bailey when he was advised of the strangers at the gate. Worthy kit for greeting well-armed intruders, he thought, not changing into formal attire.
His brother, Sir Reginald, sat to his right. There was little familial resemblance between the two. At forty-eight, Hubert's greying auburn hair receded well behind his head, not unlike a tonsure, with eyes described as steel blue to match his frigid heart. Two years younger, Reggie had a full head of greying brown hair and hazel eyes. Both were tall, eye to eye, with Reggie barrel-chested like their father. The castle Seanascal sat to his left. Four Dahlquin hearth knights sat two each on either side of Reggie and the Seanascal. Guards stood on both sides of the door of the private meeting chamber. The room was small and spare; the only adornments were the large, black, teardrop shaped soot marks where the heating pots sat, unlit on this day. The sturdy board and benches were dark and the surfaces smooth from years of use.
At the other end of the table sat the seven strangers. They included Sir Davydd and his brother Sir Byron, who shared the same flaming red hair with bushy eyebrows that bobbed dramatically when they spoke; Sir Ioan and Sir Ryan, cousins, and Ryan’s half-brother, Sir Arnolf, with two overworked squires shared between them all. Pitchers of ale were available plus some good well water.
“Tell us more of this army,” Reginald asked, sitting back in his chair.
“They mean to take revenge on Meath,” Sir Davydd said. “Young Tiomoid U’Neill got his nose twitched,” he laughed, his thick red eyebrows bobbing above his green eyes.
“How?”
“The usual,” Davydd snickered, “horses, whores and honor.” His friends laughed as well, but the Dahlquin men remained silent. “He seeks redress, is all we know.” He shrugged, glancing first at his brother Byron, then the rest of his men who nodded in agreement.
“Seems extreme,” Reginald commented, “to seek out the Danes and Norse Hebridians. That’s an army large enough to threaten the peace.”
“Expensive, too. Tiomoid U’Neill has naught the resources,” the Seanascal added. Nor was Dahlquin the most direct route to Meath in central Ireland.
“Not for revenge. Reeks of war,” Reginald said. “Does King Henry know? Is England behind this?”
“Tiomoid acts alone, for revenge on Meath, nothing more,” Byron said jovially.
“And the U’Neill’s, does Lord Magnus stand behind Tiomu?” Reggie asked. The U’Neill’s still considered themselves the monarchy of all Ireland, claiming it was their ancestral right, High Kings of Ancient Tara. But young Tiomoid was one of many landless younger sons of the U’Neills. And out of favour.
“Good Sirs, Lord Dahlquin,” Ioan offered, refilling his cup with ale, “we’ve told you all we know. It’s an army of some magnitude. But we are not aligned with the U’Neill’s nor Tiomoid.”
“Don’t kill the messengers,” Davydd added, “we only bring you news of what we saw. Surely, we were naught in command to interrogate Tiomoid U’Neill! We spoke with them only briefly.”
“Send your own enquiries, Lord,” said Byron, revealing some agitation.
“Bears watching, doesn’t it?” Ioan added.
Hubert nodded. He had been content to let his men ask the questions. Impassively he watched the strangers before him.
“Who are you aligned with?” Reginald asked pointedly. “Who is your liege lord, then?” Valuable information; most armed men were funded by a lord or baron; thus, did they owe him their allegiance in all things. This was the core of their society: sworn fealty to one’s overlord or the patriarch of the family unit.
“We’re knights-errant, sir,” Byron said. “It’s our plan to travel the length and breadth of all Ireland. There are many good works to be done, and in doing, we might find our place and pledge ourselves.”
“I’m from Wales, sirs, and would seek new opportunities,” Arnolf claimed. “My Lord William de Braose crossed King John; his men were ‘excused’. Not wishing to die, I left.”
The Dahlquin men shrugged. Ireland had little love of England, and they were all too familiar with that sad tale of years past. William de Braose had told all that England’s King John strangled his own nephew, Arthur of Brittany. John in turn left William’s wife to starve to death in prison and confiscated all de Braose’s lands. His vassals were dispersed.
“My condolences,” Hubert said, thinking the man would have been a mere child then.
“Lord Dahlquin, your forebears hail from Wales, eh?” Arnolf asked. “Ireland has been good to the Welsh and English alike, we have much to offer each other,” and he held up his cup in tribute.
“Sir Davydd here is leaning towards the monastic life,” Ioan said with a shove and wink.
“I may feel the calling, now and again,” Davydd conceded, nodding his red head thoughtfully.
Knights-errant, bah. Hubert had little regard for the renegade nobility or men-at-arms who would not or could not make the pledge to one liege. They were dangerous, unpredictable. In some circumstances it did happen, as with de Braose’s vassals.
Hubert’s men exhausted the possibilities, gaining as much information as the travelers were inclined to divulge.
“Let us send word to Ashbury,” Hubert concluded. “Our allies should be forewarned as well. An army the size of which you speak will be a plague upon the countryside.”
The guests exchanged subtle glances, but Hubert could detect little. Ashbury was southeast of Dahlquin. These men had come in from the north, was Ashbury their next stop? Or the dreaded Scragmuirs to the south? There was plenty of time to warn these strangers of the devious Scragmuirs.
“Let’s clean and rest before dinner,” Hubert said as he rose, ushering the men out. “My boys will escort you to freshen up,” he said to his guests as well as the attendant pages standing by. “They can refresh at the well or sit in the Great Hall,” Hubert said.
“The Norsemen will eat dirt for lack of anything better,” said one of the Dahlquin knights. The Hebrides were known for their harsh environment. The men laughed as they left the conference.
Eloise and her mother delivered the borage flowers to the kitchen. It smelled divine: roasting venison, fresh bread and the heartiest meat and leek gravy. The preparations for the feast were well in hand. Eloise hugged Muireann, kissing her in appreciation, talk of travel and confinement forgotten. The cook patted the girl’s cheek leaving a flour handprint.
“Come, Mathair, what a night this will be,” Eloise held her hands out encouraging her mother to spin and twirl with her. Her two large dogs moved ahead, investigating, as they headed from the kitchen building to pass through the Great Hall up to their residential chambers.
“Eloise, not now,” her mother directed. “This is neither the time nor place. Dahlquin will be the able host to these strangers,” her mother added, as Eloise continued her invitation, “but this isn’t a time for such frivolity. These men and their purpose are yet unknown. That is our concern.”
Beast, Dragon and Dilis chuffed greetings, then wagged their tails as her father’s hounds came into the Great Hall. He couldn’t be far behind, she knew.
“And we their hosts. What entertainment, we could sing…and dance,” Eloise said, arms over her head as she pirouetted into one of her father’s pages. She bounced off the page in surprise and into the practiced arms of a stranger, a knight.
She stared into his green eyes, topped by prominent red eyebrows. An eager grin spread across his face as he steadied her. Where had they come from?
“Eloise!” her father and mother gasped simultaneously. Dilis growled and Aine lifted the small dog. Reginald was in striking range.
Recoiling from the admonishing tones of her parents, Eloise studied the knight. He wasn’t the pretty one she had heard about.
“Take my excuse, sir,” she said. “Shame upon me, are you hurt?” She began to brush him off and tidy his green and grey surcoat.
He laughed, “Takes more than a fine dance to topple this knight. Are we to see more?”
She flushed pink, further highlighting the white flour handprint, and nodding to the other knights she stepped back. “Mayhap, tonight. Mathair and I love to sing and dance,” she added.
Hubert moved in. “I apologize, sir, my daughter has…exuberance.” He glared at Eloise before turning his attention back to his guests. Years of hard combat showed on his face and in his lined expression. Still he stood tall and firm and confident. No one would doubt he was a man of action.
“My Lady Aine,” Hubert said, extending his fist to her. Aine dipped her head to Hubert, then stepped forward, head up, her floral garland as a crown. She placed her hand over her husband’s fist. Eloise noticed her mother’s small hand seemed to clutch her father’s fist, burying her fingernails into his coarse flesh. Her other hand was twisted in Dilis’s fur. “Lady of Dahlquin, daughter of Lord Carirthenn, descendant of our hero, Brian Boru the Viking Slayer, devoted servant of God and Crown,” her father said in formal introduction. Perplexed by her mother’s clenched hands, Eloise studied Aine’s facial expression. Fear was not present. Her mother appeared serene; her complexion glowed with the exertions of the garden and pleasures of the kitchen.
“My daughter, Maiden Eloise,” her father said. She looked up at him. His glare was gone, replaced by the impassive warrior. Before she could respond and assume her place beside her mother, her father turned his attention to the men before them.
“I present to you-” her father resumed the introduction. Curious about these strangers, Eloise focused on the men before her as her father continued with the introductions of the five knights, Sirs Davyyd, Byron, Ioan, Ryan and Arnolf. They had only two squires.
