by Anne Beggs
“Where is she?” hissed Byron.
Sean could smell blood. Whose? His wife’s? They were here together, in the maiden’s room, sleeping on a pallet upon the floor waiting for her. “Where is she?” Byron’s voice grated in Sean’s ear. Sean was bleeding and overwhelmed. The stranger threatening, the oppressing odor, and the unconscious game he played not to believe it was his own wife’s death he smelled.
“The Maid,” Byron demanded.
“Eloise? Not here?” Sean finally croaked through the pressure of a blade already severing the outer layer of flesh. Sean felt his own death as imminent. His wife and now him.
The knight felt the futility of it too. Byron wouldn’t get information from this dredge. Worthless filth. Keeping back of the man to avoid the blood, he slit Sean’s throat to the spine. Angered, he kicked the bodies, as if this would somehow reveal where his target was.
“Curse the bitch,” he muttered. Little wonder it had been so easy. She and her notorious hounds from Hell weren’t even here. What next, assist his partners with the lord and lady? Maybe Eloise was with either of them, or they would know where she was.
A small dog yapped in the adjoining chamber.
The squire was to assassinate Lady Aine while the two knights killed the father and heir. Instead of the sleeping lady, he found only a small hairy dog, biting viciously at his ankles. Kicking at the relentless dog, he rummaged quickly through the empty bed as the dog continued to snarl and bite. The squire heard a deep rumbling growl, but there wasn’t a source. The heretic’s chamber was haunted, the squire thought.
“No one here, either?’ hissed Byron as he slipped into Aine’s chamber.
Alerted by the dogs, Hubert and Reginald were up as Davydd entered. The savage dogs got the assassin by hand and throat. The table was overturned, ewer and bowl crashed to the floor. A chair slid across the room, propelled by man and dogs, wedging beneath the bed. Reginald was by the door adjoining Aine’s chamber, the carnage of red-headed man and flailing dogs separating him from Hubert on the other side of the chamber. Aine sat petrified on the bed.
As Byron came to assist his brother, Reginald descended upon him with an elbow to the face. Feet swept out from under him, the traitor thudded to the stone floor. This man would be taken alive to answer questions and suffer a proper death later. Seeing this, the squire turned and ran to take his chances with the gatehouse.
By the time Hubert could call off the dogs, Davydd was but a torso, mangled and mauled. He would answer to no one but Satan. Hubert hated a mess in his bedchamber. As a knight and lord, battle was a way of life and he thrived on it - but in his bedchamber where he, his wife and child took their refuge, this was defilement. He rushed to the bedchambers of his women. Aine’s room lay undisturbed save for the ranting Dilis. That little excuse for a dog helped saved his life. Hubert didn’t appreciate the debt to a dog not bigger than a flea on a real Dahlquin hound. Later.
His worst nightmare awaited him in his daughter’s chamber. The stench of blood and death hit him as he entered. Foul odor when a body was laid open. Emotion buried, he methodically analyzed the scene. Bed unslept in. The nursemaid, hacked almost in two, lay cruelly strewn across the floor. And who was the other? Definitely not his daughter: a man, before the saints, Sean. Look again, fool, maybe your mind refuses to see what is truly present, he scolded himself. There were only two bodies. And Eloise wasn’t one of them.
“Hubert,” Aine said, a psalter in her hand, “Eloise is in the chapel.”
Again, Hubert scanned the chamber.
“Light. We need light,” Hubert said, taking the single, inadequate candle.
Reginald entered, dragging Byron bound and gagged behind him. Hubert’s hounds snarled, snapping at the captive. Dilis sniffed at the dead bodies on the floor.
“What, how do you know?” Hubert asked his wife, suppressing panic.
“She is in the chapel,” Aine continued. “She left her psalter on the bed, a sign to Nurse or me. Before God, oh Hubert,” she wailed as the brunt of the shock set in.
“Murder! Guards! The guests are traitors!” Reginald shouted. “Stop the guests. Guards!”
Eoin and Donegal were quickly discovered, dead; others were summoned from their posts. Not a trace of Eloise or her dogs, except the sign she was in the chapel.
THE CHAPEL
The two massive hellhounds lifted their shaggy heads. They would not have been out of place guarding Satan’s gates, welcoming sinners to the blazing inferno. Saint Anne’s chapel was an unlikely place to find the wire-haired creatures.
Outside other dogs barked, alerting the castle residents. Beast and Dragon stood, shook themselves, and growled low and menacing. Eloise roused with her dogs’ movement. The floor was hard. She was stiff and cold without the warmth of her canine companions. Where was she, her sleepy mind puzzled as she drifted back sleep?
Hackles raised, the dogs continued growling like rumbling thunder. Eloise roused slowly from her night in prayer and penance. Her drowsy hand felt the wrinkled, dog-haired condition of her blue surcoat.
Now she heard the disturbance too.
“Close the gate!”
“We are attacked!”
“To arms, to arms!”
“The gatehouse is breached.”
“Sound the alarm!”
“Close the gate! Close the gate! Close the gate!”
Men shouted, screamed. The sound of metal against metal and metal to shield chimed through the dark. Shrieks of death and victory howled through the bailey and up over the ramparts.
The Great Bell rang out.
Eloise clutched the wooden cross hanging from her neck. Her mind raced as she moved to a window to peek out. Too early for drill or training, this was battle in earnest: right in their inner bailey. How did so many soldiers get inside? Who was manning the gatehouse? Sweet Jesus, Lord and Savior save us, she thought. Beast and Dragon growled, their lips curled back, revealing sharp teeth and pink gums. Eloise pictured Cara, her bow and arrows, carefully - uselessly - stored in her chamber. She had never needed them more than this very instance.
“Alsandair!” she called. “What’s happening?” she asked, shaking him awake.
Her guard jumped up, axe drawn, looking around. He listened intently, analyzing.
“Stay here!” he commanded. He opened the door, peered out: chaos. As quickly he shut the door, fell against it, eyes closed.
“Maiden!” he called, jumping up, “Secure the door.” There wasn’t a lock. He slipped out.
Eloise pulled herself away from the window to block the door. Then as quickly it burst open. Beast and Dragon lunged.
Several stunned workers stumbled into the chapel. They were terrified. What was worse: the carnage outside, or the savage beasts in the chapel? They would take their chances with God.
One woman backed out from fear of the canines, but was instantly pushed back in by Alsandair.
“Block this door!” Alsandair snarled, matching the dogs in threat. “Don’t let anyone in.”
“Quiet,” Eloise ordered her hounds. “Help me!” she snapped at the waiting group as she pushed a table in front of the door. Secure, she turned back to them. “Sit down and pray. Quietly.” Saints preserve us, she thought. “Are we safe in the Chapel? Surely good Christians would not invade the sanctuary of God’s house, despite the size,” Eloise asked the frightened group.
They stared at her, speechless, wide-eyed.
“We must be safe here. We’ll all stay quiet and pray.”
Still not an answer from the trembling group. They were praying the dogs not eat them.
She heard her father’s voice in her mind. How often had Hubert instructed his daughter, teaching her to manage, to be a judge of people. There is the honor of tournament and sport, the honor of noble love in story and song, the honor between brethren and kinsmen among their personal dealings with each other. And then there is survival. Honor may not exist in war. If someone is willing to take what isn’t his
, he is willing to take it however he can. Therefore, she must be willing to defend what is hers anyway she can. Neither rules, nor code, nor honor for thieves or murderers. It went against all her religious lessons, but sinful people existed. She must protect herself and Dahlquin. How to balance God’s law and survival? It’s in God’s hands, her father would say. Hubert would have much to answer for, but accepted full responsibility for it: now, and when his judgment came.
They wouldn’t be safe. Eloise felt it with each breath. Where would she be safe? How would she get there? Safe. What of her parents? Were they safe? Did they look for her, mayhap putting themselves at risk to find her? Eoin or Donegal would come for her, she thought. Her dogs barked, as communication with the other canines of Dahlquin and as a steady warning to bodies approaching the chapel.
Pitched battle charged the air with static energy. The clash of swords, battle-axes, and other weaponry rang throughout the keep and ramparts. Shouts of men fighting, shouts of command, of positions and reinforcements, and the agony of injury and dying. Fire and its partner smoke permeated everything, blocking the morning’s light.
Mathair and the physician will be in the infirmary, she thought. They need me. With that goal in mind, Eloise kept watch on the mayhem outside. No one assaulted the chapel, yet. It wasn’t of strategic military use. Years had been spent listening to her father and Uncle Reggie discussing war tactics. The endless strategies for attack and defense, drawings in the dirt, use of a board game, teaching her over and over again how best to defend Dahlquin. I should have paid more attention, she scolded herself, searching her memory. What she did know was that this many soldiers in the inner bailey were not good, nor part of a sound, defensible plan. Taking her chances beyond the chapel with the darkness or waiting to see if she were flushed out were her immediate choices. The temporary security and sanctity of the chapel pressed her to stay put and pray.
“Heavenly Father,” she started. Not time for lesser saints, Dahlquin needed help now. “Lord God of us all, by Your benevolent will, help us. Enemies are upon us. Help the men of Dahlquin vanquish this enemy. Keep our men safe. Protect Dahlquin from this unholy siege. Heavenly Father I beseech you, by Your will, protect all Dahlquin, we have been humble servants always.” Howls of pain and fury continued outside. Eyes closed tightly, hands shaking, Eloise chanted, rocking back and forth on her knees before the altar. “By Your will help our men, by Your will help our men, by Your will help our men.”
ASHBURY CASTLE, 8th of June
Lord Albert of Ashbury sat in the dark chamber, glowering at the two young women in his bed, their arms wrapped around each other as they slept. Charming they had been at table during the evening meal. Alarming they became between the covers. But in the end, despite all their combined efforts to arouse and entertain, he had been unable to sheath his sword. God curse them.
Curse God was mayhap more accurate. His male grandeur had been legendary, his ardor unrivaled. Yet for all the well-pleased lionesses the Lion of Ashbury had mounted in his long years...long...he shook his head, none had born him cubs. And now God, in some perverse trick of hard fate, had withdrawn Albert's ability to be hard. Albert was not amused with his own word wit.
His mouth was stale with old wine, and he wiped at his dry lips. With eyes closed, Albert inhaled, remembering the taste. Like amber barley wine, piquant with a pinch of salt and a trace of bitter for balance, and the slick, heady tang of grey mullet. The flavors of Eve.
Albert fought the petty urge, as he always did, to punish the girls for his failure. And next his wife, Mor, for not choosing more competent, salacious companions. It was two years ago, in his seventieth year, when the problem arose. Arose. Albert's own words mocked his emasculated being. Seemed the whole language revolved around copulation. Every word had nuance. So where would his wrath and revenge end? Was he to punish the language makers as well as the females for his short comings? Damn it! Or the physicians and priests for not providing a cure for this debilitating state. Vituperate the saints? Saint Giles, Saint Henry II? Nearly forty-five years he had prayed to Saint Anne, blessed saint of fertility, to grant him the sons he needed. Now he prayed for the gift of the game: to rut like the ram as he once did.
It all came down to God. Merciful, vengeful, petty and self-righteous. Why? Why he wondered, would God strike down his ability to perform the sacred act of procreation, an act he had so diligently honored? God had withheld his seed. Now God withheld the tool. Yet Albert lived, strong and vigorous of limb and spirit. For the glory of Ashbury.
Albert called for his attendants. He had hunger, such hunger. Food would be the only satisfaction he would have this morning.
“Starvation is upon me, wake the kitchen staff. I require an early meal,” Albert commanded as his attendants rushed in, groggy with sleep.
Behind them, a server brought a pitcher of wine, though wine remained from the previous night.
“Are you to break fast without benefit of mass, Sire? And this, our own Saint Bron’s Feast Day?” Eoch asked, ducking as he entered the chamber, then raising an eyebrow as he stood. Eoch was fifty-seven, hoary by most reckoning, and still tall as a giant. His dark complexion had warmed with the greying of hair and eyes. He had been a Knight Hospitaler, now he was Albert’s second-in-command. Albert valued a religious man-at-arms for protection and guidance. But at these moments of inconvenient piety, Albert questioned the wisdom. And how was it the man could appear, on a moment’s notice, dressed, hair tidy, ready for whatever action Albert required?
“Damn you. And damn the damnable priest,” Albert said, for little good they had done him.
“And shall we damn the sun for not yet rising?” Eoch asked, eyebrow arching conspiratorially, a comical vision of Satan. “I’m your mercenary, Lord, not God’s.”
“Rouse the priest,” Albert grumbled as his attendants hurried to arrange his garments.
“As you command,” Eoch smiled, seeming to swagger out of the bedchamber.
A spontaneous mass was conducted with smooth efficiency since the priest was accustomed to ministering to his lord at all hours of the day or night.
With souls once more intact, and God's good graces upon them, Albert, Eoch, and Albert's personal guard made their way to the Great Hall.
The Hall was still dark at this early hour, though five pages scrambled to stoke the fire pit and torches as well as prepare the table. Barking dogs and the comforting smell of smoke welcomed Albert and his men.
Eoch inhaled deeply. Albert glanced about the dim hall, amused as the pages stumbled, bowed, stumbled, bowed again, confused about whether to kneel in servitude or continue with their chores. One little boy, someone Albert didn't recognise, fought back the tears.
“You, boy,” Albert called, pointing to the child. “By my will, you. Come to me.”
The frightened page hurried to Albert, then dropped to his knees at Albert's feet. His spindly shoulders stuck out like small hillocks, and he shook with apparent dread.
“Will someone not conduct introductions?” Albert bellowed. “If this sniveling page is to serve at my table, I best know his lineage.”
Albert glanced at Eoch, exchanging a mild grin.
“You are most observant, Lord, he's newly come,” Eoch said. “I'll do the honor.” Eoch turned his attention to the shaking page before him. “Up! Rise good page and meet your Lord,” Eoch boomed, drawing everyone's attention anew.
Eoch waited patiently as the small boy stood, obviously unsure what to do, for surely subordinates remained kneeling.
“Lord Albert, Lion of Ashbury, founding Lord and Tenant of Ashbury, Connacht, Ireland, Order of the Cross, loyal vassal of the departed King Richard the Lion-Hearted and departed King Philip of France,” Eoch recited with the exaggerated flourish of an assembly crier, barely taking a breath before resuming, “Keeper of the King's Peace and Justice by decree of Lord Gerald FitzGilbert, of Leinster and Ireland, and our fair and good King Henry, I present to you young Ruidori, second son of Sir Gw
yffed and his wife, in direct service to Lord Bryan of New Pembrokeshire, Meath. Ruidori is fostering here, as of yesterday, if memory serves.” Eoch finished, raising an arched eyebrow to young Ruidori who was still deciphering all the titles dictated.
“Has your tongue gone hiding?” Albert asked the perplexed and silent Ruidori.
Ruidori's round brown eyes stared even harder if that were possible.
“Speak, boy,” Eoch said.
One of the dogs barked. As the men laughed, the dog barked again.
“May you have goodness, Sire,” Ruidori choked out.
“Welcome to Ashbury,” Albert said. “Now go make yourself useful.”
Eoch motioned the boy away with a sweeping hand. “Chin up!” he called. As Ruidori ran off, Eoch pretended to kick him.
Albert scanned his dark hall, devoid of frivolity or the merest of glad tidings.
“To Hell with protocol,” Albert said grandly, feeling jovial after Eoch's mock formality with the page. “Let us raid the kitchens.”
“Saint Marta hear our ravenous prayers,” Eoch intoned, retrieving his eating knife and thrusting it aloft as if it were his war sword, “for the glory of Ashbury and all who hunger!”
“We’re with you, Lord Lion,” the guards answered, also raising their eating knives. Two crouched as if ready to charge.
Albert inhaled, satisfied with the scent of men and embers. This is more like it, Albert thought, raising his eating knife in martial camaraderie.
“Lord Husband, my servants cower in your magnitude,” a stately female voice intoned. Cringing, Albert lowered his hand. His eating knife hung dull and limp at his side. He and his men turned in mutual surprise. Lady Mor stepped out of the shadows, with two of her attendants. She was hastily dressed, and her bed-mussed hair was slicked down with watered wine. Mor curtsied low to Albert. “A good morrow to you, Lord,” she said before rising, stiffly, but without complaint. The years were wearing hard upon her as well.
