Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “I see them,” Roland said.

  “How many?” Sedric asked.

  Roland counted again. “Five. Like us.”

  “Five, at the crossroad. Maybe they’ve sent a welcoming party, Roland, to escort you home.”

  One of the mounted knights waved, and Roland returned the salutation. The men wore no familiar colours or identifying emblems Roland could recognise, but they were well armed. As were he and his men. The squire’s horse bellowed an inquiry.

  “Good day to you,” Roland said, nodding. “Are you for Ashbury?”

  Guillaume cleared his throat in a mild reprimand that Roland not reveal so much to these unknown men. Then he nodded politely to the mounted strangers at the crossroad.

  Roland let his breath out and waited for an answer.

  “Good day to you, sirs,” one of the knights returned. “Ashbury is it?” he asked. “And you would be?”

  Remembering Guillaume's reticence, Roland sat back reassessing, studying the face of the sullen man who had just spoken, moving on to each face in turn.

  “Forgive us,” another knight said, “courtesy gets lost on the roads. Are you seeking Ashbury?” he asked. “Ah, I see by the lads’ eager faces you must.”

  Roland turned to look at the squires, who in turn immediately looked down. Roland noticed Sedric wore a sly grin.

  “Now you’ve done it, poxy knaves,” Guillaume scolded the squires. “Revealed our mooching ways, your wanton, hungry maws flapping in the breeze.” Guillaume gave them an exaggerated scowl. “Forgive us, too,” he addressed the knights. “We’re five hungry men from Leinster, bringing the King’s blessings all the way to our Connacht neighbors,” he finished with a flourish and a bow from the waist.

  “Welcome to Connacht,” the second knight said, matching Guillaume’s jovial demeanor. “Well, follow this road,” the knight said, pointing to the left, “but you’ve a long bit to traverse.”

  “Left?” Sedric muttered, scratching his neck.

  “Most direct route, ‘less of course you want to risk farm and orchard and guarded forest. Far be it from me to command Leinstermen,” he added with a sarcastic lilt.

  “Ah, seems we’ve wandered off course, caught up in the quietude and contemplation in this rugged corner of God’s province,” Roland said, thinking as Sedric probably was that left, west, was Dahlquin, not Ashbury. “And you would be?” he asked.

  “Us? Travelers like yourselves,” the first knight said. “U’Neill.”

  “You’re also a long way from home.” The U’Neill's lands were in Ulster, northern Ireland. “I’m Roland, this is Guillaume, Sedric,” the knights nodded, and Roland introduced the squires. “We’re late of Leinster.”

  “Fair travel to you,” the U’Neill knight said.

  “Will you join us?” Roland asked, thinking the new companions would be a pleasant diversion.

  “We won’t, by your gracious will, though it’s a tempting offer,” the U’Neill knight said, then hesitated. “We’re waiting. Meeting up with some lost or waylaid cousins.”

  “Fair travel to you as well,” Roland said as he and his companions cued their horses left, hopefully to Ashbury.

  There were no dependable roads or signs so far out, only vague landmarks. Connacht was a vast wilderness compared with the southeast. The communities were spread farther apart and were more rugged and sparse than those of Leinster. Yet three Welsh invaders had traveled out here, building their Norman-style castles well beyond MacMurrough’s lands. They were Ireland’s Marcher Lords.

  The country was magnificent and held an ephemeral beauty for Roland. He had heard tell one loved it or hated it out here. While the dreaded Norsemen of centuries past were no longer the threat, the area was populated by the tenacious native Irish. The old ways were gone, and most were baptized as Christian, but they still resented the forced rule over them from England across the sea. Roland had traveled much in service to Lord Gerald FitzGilbert, and before that for his Godfather, King John. But there had been no need to travel so far northwest, a testament to the infamous “Pax Dahlquinius” as Lord Gerald FitzGilbert often joked. Dahlquin kept the peace between the native tribesmen. Lord Albert, the Lion of Ashbury, kept the peace between Dahlquin and Scragmuir.

  “Do you think Albert still keeps lions at Ashbury?” Sedric asked.

  There were no lions on these islands, or anywhere on the mainland. Yet Lord Albert had brought home two lion cubs from his sojourn to Outremer, having taken up the cross in service to King Richard and King Phillip, the same pilgrimage Ruaidri Dahlquin had returned from - only to be murdered, by his half-brother, Lord Dahlquin, according to Scragmuir rumor.

  “Lord FitzGilbert has seen them,” Roland said.

  “So, we have heard, and Lord Albert is known to throw his enemies to them. Like a Caesar,” Guillaume added.

  “But Lord Humphrey said they’re long dead. Claims none outside Ashbury has seen them in years. Scrawny, toothless things he called them,” Sedric reminded them.

  “Mayhap Humphrey is ashamed to admit he is afraid,” Roland said. “This might be how the Lion of Ashbury keeps the peace between Dahlquin and Scragmuir.”

  “Plenty of men say they've heard the roaring deep in the bowels of Ashbury,” Guillaume said with a grin. “I'd like to see them. Not in an arena, mind you.”

  “Not even with an ass's jaw?” Sedric asked, grinning too. “Connacht needs a Samson.”

  “That’s it!” Guillaume exclaimed. “Albert keeps his lions at At-March, Roland, that’s why no one has seen them in Ashbury castle. You’re to be the new lion warden.”

  Roland thought about his new Lord. Albert of Ashbury was one of the original Welsh lords who ventured to Ireland to help Dermot MacMurrough restore his Leinster lands. That complete, Albert was granted land in Connacht. Ashbury estate secured, Albert had taken up the cross and joined England's King Richard and France's King Philip as did his neighbor’s son Ruaidri Dahlquin, the younger.

  “He went all the way to the Holy Land to retrieve lions to subdue his neighbors and cousins,” Guillaume said with a chuckle. “Fine neighbors you have, Roland.”

  “Fine neighbors, the Lion of Ashbury, the brother-murdering Barbarian of Dahlquin with his unholy women, and the pious Stag of Scragmuir,” Sedric said.

  “Pious, is it?” Guillaume asked. “Penis more like it,” he chuckled. “Hope Albert is so generous.”

  “None but women left in Ashbury. All the men have been killed or assassinated. Do you think the Old Lion will really live forever?” Sedric asked.

  “Albert is the oldest man in Connacht,” Roland said. “Seventy-two, saints preserve him.”

  “Oldest man in Ireland, I wager,” Guillaume added. “And not a child to his name, cock or cunt.”

  “Not true, he had children, but they died,” Sedric said.

  “The bastards of infidelity were slain,” Guillaume reminded them.

  “My neighbors,” Roland said, “a little more respect, with your will. Albert gave the babes his name.” Rumor had it Albert was seedless, yet when his wives and concubines conceived, Albert readily claimed the children to prove his manhood. As the years went on, and his relatives continued to kill his heirs and each other, Albert claimed that God wanted him, and him alone, to rule Ashbury: thus his robust old age. His fourth wife, Mor, continued to provide Albert with proven fertile women, praying for a true heir, securing her place as dowager.

  “Roland, if Albert perceives you as FitzGilbert's usurper-” Sedric said, bringing the conversation back to Roland’s new fief and title.

  “Lion bait!” Guillaume interrupted. “Not the warden at all.”

  The squires sighed.

  “Bleeding saints on a cross, lads,” Guillaume said, looking back at the wide-eyed squires. “It's a blood bath we've stumbled into. Good thing we're lost!”

  Roland sighed, and stroked his black horse’s damp neck. “This was not my idea,” he murmured to horse. Roland was proud to pledge himself to Hig
h Lord FitzGilbert, and earnestly did his Lord’s bidding - until now. Through exceptional service and bravery, he had earned the title Lord and been granted a small land holding within Ashbury, with tenants and the responsibilities associated with such a fief. Eventually a new lord would have to be granted in Ashbury. Roland was perhaps being groomed for this position. If he survived.

  As his men chuckled and reminisced, Roland’s mind drifted back to Connacht and what his actions had wrought. He had accepted the hospitality of Scragmuir estate, and knew something of Ashbury, but what of Dahlquin?

  Lord Hubert’s grandfather had come to Ireland in years past. Richard Dahlquin made his claim outside the conquered English domain, in Connacht, and started building on the original castle in the Norman style. He was an ambitious and vicious man, a good choice to subdue the hordes: and perhaps, to keep him busy and away from being a threat to the English crown.

  Richard Dahlquin assimilated to the wilderness. He put aside his first wife and took the daughter of one of the high-ranking Irish kings: a hearty, red-haired maiden, with cunning moss-green eyes and a hauntingly angelic voice when she chose to sing or speak. Music bridged the language gap between husband and wife. Out of respect to his new wife who assumed his name as the Lady Dahlquin, so he honored her people by altering his name, Richard, to the more traditional Ruaidri. Soon it was shortened to Rory, in honor of the King of Connacht. The name change was a well-received gesture and helped establish the continued interactions between the two diverse groups. Yet, their two sons bore English names-Hubert and Reginald, as an appeasement, mayhap.

  After two generations it appeared to most that it was the Dahlquins who had truly been subdued, so indoctrinated into the wilderness had they become. Dahlquin had succumbed to the heathen influences of this barbarian wasteland yet maintained enough loyalty to the English crown and Irish nobles that a mutual tolerance existed. The English king left Connacht to Dahlquin, and in turn Dahlquin left the east to the king.

  Roland had been sent to Ashbury-at-March as another peacekeeper. Despite arguing he was no diplomat, Lord FitzGilbert insisted he was the optimal candidate. Of course, there was no dissent with FitzGilbert’s orders, and honor or not, Roland and his friends departed for Connacht.

  Roland sat stiffly in the saddle, rubbing his bearded chin with his gloved hand. He wanted a bath and his hair combed out. His companions looked no better. This was no way to meet his new seigneur lord.

  “Roland,” Guillaume called, “have you decided on a bride?”

  “I don’t need a wife,” Roland frowned.

  “If we’re to cavort about, you’ll need a good wife to run your estate,” Sedric said.

  “A frugal wife to replenish your purse from the fruit of the land,” added Guillaume, “one who can brew and fill a decent cup.”

  “Bah! If it’s such a good plan, why don’t you marry?” Roland asked his companions.

  “I don’t have an estate to live off,” answered Guillaume, the eldest of the three, friend and mentor as Sedric and Roland had achieved knighthood.

  “That’s why we’re with you,” chimed in Sedric, clutching his fists together in a pleading gesture. “Feed us and clothe us, Lord,” laughed the stout knight, the mirthful sound incongruous with the frizzy-haired man-beast in the saddle.

  Roland scowled at both his friends.

  “And you are to push a plow?” Roland asked.

  “Me?” Guillaume asked incredulously. “That’s why you need a wife.”

  “To push a plow?” Roland persisted.

  “Roland, you know nothing. The lady will manage the estate and workers. We show up now and then to flatter her, sow some seed, fill our purses and go.”

  “I pray such an opportunity, and Roland will always have a warm bed waiting and fertile furrows-” Guillaume didn’t finish.

  “Enough!” Roland ordered. “I’m not a farmer, and there are plenty of warm beds.” He squinted at his tormentors. Demons desist, he had much to decide, greater priorities in estate management than a wife. Details, responsibility, fucking responsibility - in this wilderness.

  “Roland,” Sedric ventured; a change of topic was in order. “You’re not a lonely man, what is your secret?” Sedric asked.

  Roland considered his friends carefully.

  “Guillaume isn’t lonely either, ask him,” Roland answered. Guillaume straightened up is his saddle. He was as tall as Roland, thicker.

  “I have,” Sedric replied, “he is a braggart,” and he gave Guillaume a scowl. Guillaume smiled at him wickedly, making an obscene gesture.

  Roland shrugged. There was the difference.

  “Speak, man,” Guillaume said. “Would you not share with your brothers?”

  With a deep breath and a few more strides down the road, Roland relented.

  “Treat a lady like a whore, and a whore like a lady, and they will both treat you right every time,” he said, riding on.

  “Really?” Guillaume and Sedric both said at the same time.

  “Take heed of that, boys,” Guillaume called back to the squires. Over the years he had lost most of the teeth on the left side of his mouth. Missing teeth never intimidated his wide grin, however.

  “So, how will you treat the mysterious heretic of Dahlquin?” Guillaume asked with a hint of mischief in his voice.

  “Which heretic?” Roland asked. Both Lady Aine and her daughter were notorious throughout Ireland for heresy and other devilry.

  “The daughter, imbecile,” Guillaume said, shaking his head.

  “Roland, the girl may just be full of heathen blood. Nothing more,” offered Sedric.

  “A succubus,” smiled Guillaume. Roland shot him a dirty look. He had smiled little since heading northwest. He was sulking; his dark features intensified the effect.

  “A half-animal demon, that would explain a lot,” Sedric chuckled. “She would be beautiful by night.”

  “Is that so, hovering over poor Roland, lapping his manhood dry,” continued Guillaume, blue eyes sparkling with lust and mirth.

  “Is that how they do it?” asked Sedric, wide eyed with interest. The squires closed ranks, too, temporarily forgetting they were lost.

  “Assume the form of a beautiful woman. Large breasts float down upon you, with the smoothest, most unblemished skin, pale and translucent. Breath as sweet as honey,” he said with just a hint of lasciviousness. “Slips into bed like an angelic apparition, soft as a male is hard.” The men squirmed in their increasingly snug saddles.

  “What’s a man to do?” agreed Sedric. A tinge of red highlighted his cheeks, proud to be aroused and worthy of such of gentle attention.

  “Enough,” scowled Roland. “Arses,” he muttered.

  “She and her mother both, yet it has not hurt Lord Hubert too much. Save he’s ugly as sin,” Guillaume commented.

  “Why else would she wear boys’ clothing and sleep with the livestock?” Sedric continued. One heard many rumors about the Maid of Dahlquin, and this seemed to fit the description.

  “It’s a good disguise by day,” Guillaume said, and he and Sedric laughed at the fate of their good friend.

  “Those could be lies,” Roland offered. Thoughts of ancient magic scared him more deeply than he cared to admit, to himself or his companions. How could he combat it? Not with sword or dagger, surely. He would risk the lions of Ashbury over black magic any day.

  “Oh, lies is it?” added Sedric, “She could be the angel by day, kind and pious.”

  “And ugly and celibate by night,” Guillaume said. Again, all but Roland laughed.

  “Good thing she is an heiress,” Sedric observed.

  “The Scragmuirs are none too fond of the barbarous Dahlquins. Maybe we should take heed. They live out here,” Guillaume reminded them.

  “If the ladies of Dahlquin are heretics, or worse minions of Satan, why would they seek to establish a cathedral?” asked Sedric.

  “Satan or angel, could it be so black and white, good or evil?” asked Roland.
“Who are these people really? Gerald FitzGilbert loves them dearly, calls Lord Hubert brother.”

  “Brother, after what Hubert did to his true brother? I don’t know, Roland.”

  “And his own half-brother, remember that?”

  “Mayhap some evil spirit clouds the High Lord’s good judgment.”

  His friends shrugged but offered no answers.

  Roland’s traveling companions enjoyed teasing him about his prospective neighbors and future brides. The ribald harassment degenerated further.

  “You were wrong about the nineteen-year old widow in Scragmuir, remember?” Roland asked. Guillaume had made some frightening comments about the eligible brides prior to their visit at Scragmuir.

  “He was,” Sedric agreed, “toothless and haggard after three years of mourning, you claimed.”

  The nineteen-year old widow was quite lovely, had teeth, and a very pleasant disposition. Her time of mourning was over. Although Roland had no intention of marrying her, at least his companions had less to tease him about. She would make someone a handsome wife, just not him. There was a ten-year old, eligible when she came of age, among the highest born Scragmuirs, and other girls with little property to be gained. Quiet and well-mannered were the Scragmuir women, beautiful and goodly wives all. Or so the Scragmuirs said.

  Thoughts soon drifted back to the time spent at Scragmuir: two glorious days followed by a miserable day and half lost and wandering. At least in Scragmuir the sun was visible once or twice. Now all the riders were damp with the mist.

  “Very generous, Scragmuir,” Guillaume reminisced. “Even the lads got plenty of cunt. Eh Tuath? Thought you’d grown a beard.”

  Roland laughed with his men.

  “He’s still got hair in his teeth,” Sedric said.

  “Val missed all the fun,” Roland said, still chuckling, thinking of his own squire, left behind in Leinster to recover from a plague of the lungs.

  “Just two days ago,” Guillaume sighed.

  “So it was, and a day and half with only you four to gaze upon,” Roland said. “Look there,” he said, pointing to an open, rocky meadow where a small herd of red cattle grazed placidly. “Do you see the bear?” A large dark form was grazing among the cattle.