by Anne Beggs
“I do, with cubs,” Guillaume added, with astonishment.
“With the cows?” said Sedric in a mocking tone. “Not a bear,” he scoffed, but Roland noticed he too was staring at the sight.
“Ugly damn cows, then,” Guillaume said.
“Do you think it’s one of Ashbury's lions?” one of the squires asked from behind.
“Lions aren't black,” Guillaume said, not taking his gaze from the herd.
“Let’s see for ourselves,” Roland ventured, looking back at the wide-eyed squire, leading the group off the road toward the mystery beast.
A few wary cattle looked up but didn't turn and walk away. The beast and her cubs, however, did move briskly within the herd, showing more fear of detection than the cows.
“Have you ever?” Sedric exclaimed.
Guillaume whistled, revealing astonishment and appreciation.
“As large as a bear, to be sure,” Roland said of the beast and her cloven-hooved brood.
“If the pigs are as big as bear-,” Guillaume left his question unasked.
“How large are the bear?” Sedric asked, a large grin brightening his ruddy features.
“And that was but a sow,” Roland said, smiling at his grinning men. “Imagine the size of a boar in his prime.” Connacht had much promise. Roland led the men back to the road, in search of Ashbury Castle, with a warm welcome and warmer beds.
“Do you think Ashbury will be so hospitable as was old Humphrey of Scragmuir?” Sedric asked with hope in his voice. “Or Dahlquin, when we present ourselves to our neighbors?”
“It would be good to bathe again, by his gracious will, and not sleep on the ground,” Guillaume added.
“With naught but your own ‘worm’ as company,” Sedric stated. The men laughed and twitched in the tight saddles.
The five lonely, road-weary travelers had been esteemed guests, feasting and touring the estate at Scragmuir, and fresh blood to game with. The women were indeed quiet and well-mannered. While the legitimate daughters were sequestered away, the illegitimate ones were generously available. Guillaume was eager to make his services available to the Scragmuirs if they were in need of more good men. His wanton behaviour had found a home if they would have him. Roland and Sedric were not lonely either.
Roland knew they were treated lavishly, and it was well appreciated after the long trip. While Ashbury was neutral regards the feud between the neighbors, Scragmuir lobbied very hard indeed to make Roland understand the dangers of Dahlquin, poison his mind: black magic, paganism and murder. Both families had their roots in the 1169 invasion, bringing the ancient feud with them, some claimed. Dahlquin had obviously fallen further from grace as far as Scragmuir was concerned. Lord Humphrey still accused Hubert of murdering his elder brother, Richard Dahlquin II, upon his return from the Holy Land. His horse and cape were found in western Dahlquin. The body was never recovered nor his rings, one a gift from Richard the Lion-Hearted, the other from the Holy Land. Lord FitzGilbert declared there was insufficient evidence to condemn Hubert or his men, and no cause. After all these years, Scragmuir kept the memory of murder and the burning hatred for Dahlquin alive. They would further this bitter feud upon any whom would listen.
Talk and politics were not Roland's strengths. Nor was he eager to start his education in such. What was he doing here? Diplomat, peacekeeper, farmer. What would he find? He wasn’t looking for anything, he had been happy in Leinster.
“Roland!” Guillaume shouted. “So gloomy. Pining over someone back at Scragmuir, fair Juliana or the widow?”
Roland scowled at the knight, “I am not.”
“Juliana was extraordinary,” Sedric said with reverence.
“Fantasizing about the succubus, then?” Guillaume inquired with a glint in his blue eyes.
“Roland,” Sedric said, “I’ll wager the hills still possess a fur clad bride for you, if you’re man enough.”
Guillaume laughed.
Their horses ambled on, confident in the road they followed.
“Might Scragmuir have given us bad directions?” queried Sedric.
“What reason?” continued Guillaume. “None.”
“There was not a reason, but we missed the entire estate. Where are we if not Ashbury?”
Were the mists really the ethereal forms of ancient sprites or pixies? Dragon’s breath, indeed, if one believed in such ancient and unknown beasts. Beautiful, too, despite the haunting feeling it evoked. Roland surveyed the landscape once again: open, vast and serene, no wasteland, this. What little he could see through the dragon’s breath this morning wasn’t a barren wasteland as some claimed. Flax grew well, and the plentiful rivers and cool temperatures were ideal for the production of linen. Flax and sheep provided abundant clothing for Ireland and abroad.
“Ho, you there!” Roland called to laborers in the field, bent to their tasks, the day early yet. They looked up to the mounted knights before them but said nothing, waiting. “Is this Ashbury?”
“It is not, Sir,” they answered, shaking their heads in agreement. “Dahlquin.”
Roland slumped in his saddle, his weary horse mimicking the response.
“I knew it,” Sedric muttered, “left!”
“And the castle - how far?” asked Roland, ignoring Sedric.
In unison all the men pointed east to the horizon masked by fog.
“East is it? Well, we have been lost,” Guillaume said.
“How far?” asked Roland once more.
The men looked to each other, east and at each other again.
Head bowed, one man stepped forward from the field. “Sire, it’s ‘bout half a day walk from here. “Wait,” he thought again, “half day there and back. Not with horses.” He shook his head to further emphasize he hadn’t an idea how long it would take riding. “There’s tracks to follow round the fields, will lead you to the castle.”
“By your will,” offered another, “wide tracks, so our lordship can bring his carts through to collect his due.”
“Values his land he does,” the first man said.
Roland thought the men prayed he and his horses would stick to those tracks and not gallop cross-country trampling the crops and scattering the livestock.
“So he does,” Guillaume called over his shoulder as the knights and squires rode east. “Seems we’ve rounded the whole damned island.”
“I thought I smelled ocean spray, eh lads? Salty,” Sedric teased.
They rode on, careful to stick to the wide, well-worn tracks that promised to lead them to Dahlquin.
CHAPEL, 8th of June
The chapel door rattled, distracting Eloise from her prayers; next a thud and scraping. Swords clanged at impact. Again and again the noise jarred her spine. Grunts and curses filled the void. The great wooden door shook violently but held and Eloise could only imagine the battle Alsandair waged against the unknown assailants.
The chapel door flung open. Beast and Dragon snarled a warning, fangs bared. Slanted brown eyes shone out from their shaggy faces, the brass studs on the thick leather collars caught the candlelight. The workers cried out, fleeing to side walls as armed men pushed the door open, the table skidding along the floor. The hounds lunged and the men retreated, slamming the door behind them. Beast and Dragon tore at the door, snarling, tails wagging in victory. As suddenly it burst open again. Three men struggled in.
Eloise gasped, desperate for her bow and arrows back in her chamber.
“Who?” one of the men yelled over the noise in a strange Gaelic, “who’s in here?” he asked the trembling peasants. These horrible hounds must protect someone important.
Eloise watched in horror as the armed men moved forward, Beast and Dragon trying to get them. She had to reach the door to get out.
Dragon made a play for one of the advancing soldiers’ legs. Pulling and shaking her head he was pitched to the floor, screaming as the dog tried to dislocate his leg. Sword drawn, the man pummeled Dragon with the pommel end. Then he swung with both h
ands.
“Not her!” screamed Eloise as Dragon screeched, turning a half circle in shock and agony. Again, the dog lunged at her attacker, blocking the door.
The other two men held Beast at bay with axe and sword.
“Stop this. Stop at once!”
Eloise knew the voice, the priest.
“This is a house of God,” he wailed, anger sustaining him as he pushed his way through the door. “Maiden!” the priest called, recognising her dogs.
The two soldiers drew up and surged forward against Beast. Searching the semi-dark chapel, one man’s eyes fell on Eloise. “There,” he indicated, running towards her.
“Maiden?” the priest called again. He had betrayed her presence. Eloise had to move, to escape. “Stop,” the priest commanded, spreading his arms to block the attacker, “in God’s name!”
Eloise prayed they listen.
But the man pushed past the priest. Trembling, the priest grabbed the man’s arm, holding tight as the attacker tried to pull free. Spinning around, the man threatened to strike down the tenacious priest. His eyes were hard and lined as he glared at the priest.
“Before God, my son, cast down your weapons!”
Using the distraction provided by the priest, Eloise tore her eyes away from the fight before her and bolted. She climbed up the High Altar. “God forgive me,” she prayed, grabbing a silver candlestick and tucking it in her girdle before scaling the wall hangings as she continued her escape. Using the candlestick, she broke through the beautiful painted glass window. Meant to let God’s light and goodness in, this morning it let Hell’s fury out. “God forgive me,” she muttered, whacking all the thick, broken glass away. What sacrilege was she committing to save herself?
Eloise climbed through the broken window and cried out as she slipped through the broken glass. Dropping from the window, surcoat torn, hair flying, Eloise ran for the residential tower. Fighting barred her way as the men from the chapel chased her. She ran to the scaffolding, erected for repairs on the inner wall. Despite the encumbrance of her surcoat, Eloise climbed. She could reach the residential tower from the wall.
Climb, just climb.
Curse these garments, she thought. If there had been time, she would have used her knife to cut them away. Sweating with the exertion of her labors, she felt chilled with fear. A soldier below grabbed her hem and yanked. Eloise slipped and hit her chin on the rung. She fought to keep climbing, but the man’s grip was too strong. She kicked wildly. Think, she told herself, wait, wait. As the man below took a second to change his grip to grab her ankle, she hooked him under the chin with her heel, loosening his grip. He fell to the ground.
“Eloise! Up here,” Uncle Reggie shouted. He extended a hand, thick and strong, and hoisted her clear up to his level. More soldiers rushed them.
She couldn’t formulate words.
“Take this,” he snarled, removing his shield. “Hubert!” Reginald shouted. Then to Eloise, “You see him? On the ground,” he was pointing to her father on the ground at the end of the scaffolding; a body lay at his feet.
“Da!” she screamed in horror and relief.
“Go!” her uncle shouted.
Slipping his enormous shield over her left arm, she ran. Behind her Uncle Reggie roared. A terrifying sound, it made many a warrior think twice before challenging him. The clash and twang of sword meeting sword and sword meeting shield rattled Eloise to the bone. The unstable wooden scaffolding creaked and swayed as she fled.
Seeing her father renewed her hope and energy. He’d know what to do. Almost there, the warmth of safety crept into her senses. Heavy footsteps quaked behind. Instinctively she drew the shield up, turning sideways to deflect the blow as best she could, still running. A glancing mace blow pitched her onto the wood and rope binding. She winced with the bruising impact to her ribs.
“Arrr!” she heard the familiar roar of Reggie. “Run, damn you!” Without looking back, she clutched her skirts even higher and ran. Reggie struck the mace-wielding soldier with such force the scaffolding rocked as man and sword hit wood framing. More footsteps and this time the blows of Reginald’s sword on a shield. The scaffolding groaned, the footing unsteady.
“Father, Da!” she screamed.
Hubert was waiting for her. Eloise perched at the end of the scaffolding, Reginald’s shield in hand. The gangway behind was filled with armed men bearing down on her with only Reginald between them. There was nothing left but to jump. It was a long way, but with her father to break the fall what choice did she have? Eloise dropped the shield on the scaffolding and climbed between the rails. It seemed so much higher on the outside of the railings, her father the size of a mere child.
“Jump!” her father commanded, shaking his hands at her expectantly. Blue-grey eyes bulging, as if that would somehow alter the height, Eloise looked down at her father. The thundering sounds on the gangway startled her into action. She let go of the railings and reached towards her father, still dwarfed by the distance. Her stomach lurched, the pounding of weapons in her ears replaced with wind.
She landed in her father’s arms, knocking him down with the impact, too late remembering how to roll or slap the ground as she did when falling from a horse. His grunt resonated with deep ache as he expelled all his breath and more as she crushed him into the ground then bounced from his grip. Landing hard, Eloise shrieked in pain and the terror she had killed her father.
“Da,” she whimpered, reaching for him.
Her father sprang up, his face so contorted with wrath she barely recognised him. His expression softened a brief moment, and it was enough to reassure her. Before she could spring to her feet, he gripped her arm, the armored fingers of his gauntlet biting into her, emboldening her. Side by side they ran.
FINDING DAHLQUIN
Roland felt Artoch inhale as the horse’s barrel expanded. The mighty animal jigged and strained on the reins. Roland glanced at his companions: their horses, too, had flared nostrils, ears forward in agitation and expectancy.
“What the fuck?” Guillaume said, stroking his horse’s neck.
“What indeed?” Roland murmured, also stroking Artoch’s neck, trying to settle the horse. He searched the landscape but saw nothing unusual. They proceeded, searching and listening.
Roland turned an ear. Was that a shout? Or a cry? Metal to metal. Pounding.
He raised his arm signaling halt. He glanced at his men and believed they, too, heard the distant sounds of fighting.
He knew which way to Dahlquin. There was a battle. This was much more exciting than wandering through the mist. Fighting is what he and his men lived for. Helping one of the High Lord’s dearest friends would brighten any knight’s day.
At a slow canter, Roland and his companions followed the noise. They were witnesses to the massacre and destruction that made a path to the ever-increasing mayhem of a castle under siege. As the sun broke through, mighty Dahlquin Castle was revealed. What should have been a beauteous vision was marred: fields void of life, neither crop nor livestock stirred. A swath of death marched to the fortress. Fires burned inside and out. Smoke rose, blurring the sunlight. Angry voices ripped through the pastoral scene, the surrounding woodlands rang with the foul noise of men and metal.
From the scant protection afforded in an orchard, Roland and his companions assessed the situation.
“Probably twenty or thirty archers and one hundred men spread out. Fuck,” Sedric said, counting again. “Who is that?” he asked, not recognising any banners or colors.
“A mangonel being assembled,” Guillaume added, “and siege towers under construction. I agree, fuck.”
A small encampment by the road - the road these travelers had missed - bustled as men prepared arms and ran messages.
“Who indeed,” Roland said. “It’s-,” he hesitated to say ‘brilliant’, but it was. “Well executed, seems the castle has already been breached.”
“Reinforcements from Ashbury would end this quickly, what do you think?” Se
dric asked.
“The drawbridge must be pulled up before a battering ram or siege tower is rolled onto it. We could do that,” Roland offered, voice low, still thinking. “Mayhap.”
“Ashbury could end this,” Sedric said again, “prudent to warn them, Roland.”
“Prudent to get that bridge up,” Roland said slowly, still calculating, ignoring Sedric’s pragmatic suggestion.
“Roland-” Guillaume started.
“I’m not a messenger,” Roland growled, fixing his black eyes on his companions, trying not to smirk.
Roland dispatched the two squires to Ashbury to warn and seek assistance. Reinforcements would end this quickly, if the squires could find Ashbury and if they could make it back.
After a brief moment of acceptance from his men, they put on their helms and drew their swords.
With the bravado of youth and invincibility, the three lost knights charged the mass on the drawbridge. Assuming authority they didn’t have, they pretended to be in command, ordering everyone off the bridge.
“Who is in charge here?” Guillaume shouted to the men attacking the drawbridge. He drew blank stares. Then they all began yelling in several dialects and languages. The knight tried again in Latin.
“Who are you?” asked one of the men warily, in Latin, not recognising Guillaume.
“It is the Master of the Gate,” Sedric said, feigning great authority, indicating Roland.
“Get off, let me handle this,” Roland said to the assembled men, waiting to take their turn to storm the bridge.
“Everyone off the bridge,” Guillaume and Sedric continued to order. “Stand down!” They ducked, the shields affixed on their backs protecting them but not their horses.
“Why?” was the resounding cry. “Who are you?” the attackers persisted.
Again all the men ducked, shielding themselves as best they could from the bolts and arrows.
