Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Roland turned a malicious smile on the man he thought to be in charge. The sword he wielded was yet unbloodied, a naked state for such a blade. “I’ve a key,” Roland said, cocking his head with evil conviction.

  “Bah, there isn’t a key,” a man scoffed. “Out of our way!” and he made to push past the mounted knight before him.

  “Scragmuir says otherwise,” Roland roared so all could hear. Guillaume and Sedric nodded their solemn agreement. Roland sensed the man’s hesitation. “Trust me,” he said, growling. Roland tried to place the language the other men muttered among themselves. Some Norse tongue, he wondered? An odd Gaelic? He thought they were acknowledging Scragmuir’s desire to provide a key or true means of defeat.

  It was all a bald-faced lie on the part of Roland and his companions. A rush of fear and perverse pleasure pumped through Roland's system as he continued their deception. He and his men were aligned with Dahlquin and help was needed. Outnumbered as they were, a bluff seemed the best offense.

  “I wasn’t told of a plan,” the man in charge challenged again. “Who sent you?”

  Who indeed? Roland and his companions had no idea whatsoever who laid siege to Dahlquin or where this enemy was from, let alone who the captain of this particular assault force was. Roland stared at the man, eyes narrowed with anger. His first instinct was to strike the insubordinate down, but that didn’t seem wise at the moment. He hadn’t expected the men to dispute him and he wasn’t accustomed to arguing with lower ranks in Latin.

  “You should find your captain and ask him,” Guillaume shouted in broken Norman-Latin, “and let us do our job. You have not been able to take the bridge.”

  “You!” the leader shouted to one of his men at the end of the line. “Go find the captain.” The man hurried off, and the leader, sword and shield poised, glared at the three mounted knights.

  “Time’s wasting,” Roland gritted, and turning Artoch, walked his horse straight into the man, until the man was forced off the drawbridge. “Everyone off the bridge!” Roland shouted again.

  Reluctantly the men backed down. As another round of bolts and arrows whistled by, three more soldiers fell. It now seemed a good time to the foot soldiers to seek shelter while these knights faced the bolts and arrows and gatehouse.

  Roland saw the men retreat from the bridge as an arrow deflected off his shield.

  If evacuating the bridge had been hard, now the three knights had to convince someone inside Dahlquin to open the portcullis long enough for them to enter before being crushed when the huge drawbridge was brought up.

  Sedric and Guillaume pleaded with the men to open the portcullis.

  “We’re loyal to Lord FitzGilbert, here at his bidding!” Guillaume shouted.

  “We’ve cleared the bridge! Let us in!” Sedric yelled.

  Guillaume grabbed an iron bar of the portcullis, pulled his face close and ordered one of the guards to open it. “I swear we come to help. The bridge is secure.”

  Still the Dahlquin guards stared as the large, angry face of Sir Guillaume pressed against the metal.

  “Your soul will rot in Hell for your lack of faith,” Guillaume hissed.

  “By order of Lord Roland of Ashbury-at-March, open this gate - now!” Roland called in a thundering boom, startling everyone including himself. He sat erect as Artoch pawed the bridge, and glanced back to see a bolt pierce the cantle and another stick in his horse’s tail as it flashed defiance. Steam spewed from his destrier’s flared nostrils.

  The portcullis began to lift. Roland felt the footing shift. The draw bridge was rising as well.

  “Stop them, stop them!” two of the attacking soldiers shouted as they ran back to the assault force at the drawbridge.

  “Jesus-Fuck!” Sedric shouted.

  Roland saw the portcullis lifting with slow, deliberate measure. He felt the bridge slanting -faster than the portcullis would allow access. Artoch crow hopped. Surely the portcullis appeared as a great fanged maw opening to consume them both.

  “Roland!” Guillaume shouted.

  Praise God the bridge slanted as it did, for Artoch had the coiled energy to buck him clear over the battlement. Instead, Artoch reared, trying to escape the jaws of death. Roland shared Artoch’s fear. The blasphemy, Jesus Fuck pounding in his ears.

  Sedric and Guillaume dismounted and led their horses under the spiked teeth of the portcullis, as Roland and Artoch slid towards them.

  “Easy,” Roland called, as he dismounted from his skittering horse. “Down,” he called to Artoch as he tugged the reins, forcing Artoch’s head down as they slid into the deadly gatehouse of Dahlquin Castle.

  Roland, Artoch, his men and their horses stumbled through bodies, dead and alive, over the burning coals that had been dumped through the murder holes. Flames from the hot oil that had been splashed on the trapped men in the gatehouse flared up on all sides of the destriers. The stench of burnt flesh was oppressive and the heat stifling.

  “I’m Roland, the Lord of Ashbury-at-March. I must speak with Lord Dahlquin!” Roland called out, mounting his horse once more. It was hard to tell which men fought for Dahlquin, and which were invading. “Where is Lord Dahlquin?” Surely Hubert would want to know what he and his men had seen from the orchard.

  Guillaume and Sedric, horses skittering to match his own, guarded him left and right.

  “Father, Da!” A woman’s screams pierced the din, from high on the scaffolding. Roland looked up to see a young woman chased along the scaffolding, calling down to a man on the ground. Dropping her shield, she jumped into his arms. It must have been three men’s height. She hit the ground running and the man and woman disappeared behind stone. Fucking Hell, he thought.

  Roland was knocked from his horse, and the girl and her jump were forgotten in the heat of battle in the mighty fortress of Dahlquin.

  DAHLQUIN CASTLE, 8th of June

  “Water,” Alsandair called feebly in the chapel as the battle raged outside. Noise and people surged. Pain of thirst drowned his other senses. “Water,” he rasped lifting a hand as if it held a cup. He could hear people, feel movement, but saw nothing in the darkness.

  Warm hands clamped round his and guided the cup to his parched lips.

  “Slowly,” someone said, “slowly, don’t choke.”

  Alsandair drained the cup, resisting as the warm hand pulled the empty cup away.

  “Give him more, all he wants, but slowly,” said the voice.

  “By your will,” Alsandair whispered, desperate for more. After uncounted cups of wine, the blessed relief from dehydration was replaced with the searing pain of his injuries. He forced his mind to retrace the events leading him…where?

  “Alsandair,” the priest called, “open your eye. Can you see me?”

  Instead of answering, Alsandair reached out to feel the priest, whose voice he recognized. Taking the hand, the priest turned it back to Alsandair’s face.

  “Open your eye. Look at me if you can.”

  Frightened, Alsandair jerked. His eye popped open. A little cloudily, Alsandair could identify the shape of a man before him. Cautiously he rubbed his eye with the back of his hand and looked again.

  The smiling priest nodded. Alsandair grinned back, relieved to see clearly, but with one eye he soon discovered as his hands examined the binding over his right. The priest held a bloodied cloth to his neck.

  “Eloise?” Alsandair asked, was she safe? He searched the interior.

  “Safe. Tending the wounded, I have assurance,” the priest said.

  Amidst the roars outside the chapel walls, the priest and workers recounted for Alsandair the disastrous events thus far; how they had dragged his limp body to safety as Beast fought the soldier. His right eye seemed damaged beyond repair, and he suffered a nasty scalp wound that peeled all the hair and flesh in the shape of an ax blade. Maybe cracked ribs, too.

  Several more people sought refuge in the chapel as the siege wore on. The injured were tended with more prayer than technique. N
o food but spiritual rejuvenation was offered.

  “Seems clear,” one of workers said late in the afternoon, watching for an opportunity to seek help.

  “Come, Alsandair.” The priest and workers helped him up.

  Alsandair bent double and retched. Strong arms held him up. His head spun, his chest ripped in pain. “My ribs,” he croaked.

  Together they made their way to the Great Hall. “Let’s get you to a healer,” the priest said.

  Hubert and Reginald sat talking with several other knights and men of the castle. What was left, who was left, what was the prognosis? The air was heavy with the stench of overworked men, spent embers and death. Both Aine and Eloise were safe, laboring with the physician and other ladies of the manor to aid the injured and dying. Water boiled. Calf broth brewed. Prayers and chants resonated through the corridors but could neither silence nor mask the cries and groans.

  “They’re assembling a mangonel,” Sir Uilliam said, caked blood from his right ear to his chest. “Siege towers as well.”

  “By the morrow?” asked Hubert. Wouldn’t be long to assemble the mangonel and thus would Dahlquin be subject to the onslaught and heavy destruction from stone projectiles raining down upon them.

  “Easily,” Uilliam answered.

  “The Asp?” asked Hubert, the name given to the mighty trebuchet. Long it had been since this piece of arsenal was brought to use. Unlike the mangonel Tiomu would employ, the arm of the trebuchet was halted straight up, at a ninety-degree angle, allowing a high, clear shot of projectile over the ramparts of the castle onto the attackers. Seemed it shot venom like the cobras of Pharaoh and would swallow up the enemy, as did the staff of Moses.

  “Burned but functional,” Uilliam confirmed, “it will go tonight if need be. She is a beautiful piece of work, my Lord, scorch marks and all. She’ll shoot all the truer for it, I have assurance,” he smiled. Sir Uilliam had been with Hubert for many years.

  “Promise?” Hubert attempted to smile back.

  “They tried to burn the armory, as you know,” the constable reported. “Lucky it was you had most of the arrows and bolts posted. The men had their weapons with them. The losses were minimal, truly Lord.”

  “And the fletchers?” Hubert asked.

  “As we speak, lord. Every able craftsman is to task. The bowmen won’t go empty.”

  “For how long?” Hubert queried, face stern.

  “Depends, Lord,” offered the constable.

  “Depends on what?” Hubert raised his voice. “How long, give me some clue.”

  “With forty-seven archers and crossbowmen,” he tried to calculate in his head. “Ten days steady, more if we scavenge.”

  Hubert closed his eyes and sighed. The smiths couldn’t work day and night for days on end. They would need more materials. The production would be drastically reduced in time.

  “What’s the prisoner say?” Hubert asked at large, “any word? Is Scragmuir behind this? Reeks of their treachery!” These sentiments ran rampant the daylong. Scragmuir would back any assault on Dahlquin.

  “Nothing from Tiomoid U’Neill about Scragmuir”, the Seanascal answered, “only that we would be wise to concede and fall in with him. Claims to have support of the Danes, Hebrides Norse and other Irish nobles,” he added.

  “Concede!” Hubert mocked; his face crimson though covered with the grime of a full day’s battle.

  “Concede is what he said, says it’s the new order. Ireland for the Irish. Foreign rule is over.”

  “And the Danes would be-” Hubert asked, “New Irish?” The men laughed. “Is France behind this, did he say? And Norway?”

  “I think not, not Louis. Norway is uncommitted. Definitely not the English. But he is a liar and a traitor, so…his word is suspect,” the Seanascal said.

  “There’s always a chance the man knows naught. Tiomu could have fed him lies,” Reggie offered, his injured arm clutched to his chest.

  “But it’s Tiomu and the Danes, not the rest of the U’Neills?” Hubert questioned again. That would be a massive lot, armed and spread through the island.

  “I think not, not yet,” said the Seanascal. “Tiomu believes they will join him when Dahlquin and Ashbury fall.”

  “Ashbury?” A hush followed Hubert’s question.

  “Ashbury is under attack even now. Tiomu has amassed quite a force. Believe the bulk of it’s here, Lord. But Ashbury will not send help, if the traitor is to be believed.”

  “Satan’s horns!” Hubert fumed. “Is there not an end to his tyranny? He is mad. Munster and Leinster will never support this.” His large frame shook with the rage he sought to contain.

  “Not if Dahlquin stands,” Reggie said. “Would be quite a coup for this upstart were Connacht to fall.”

  “Mayhap the rest would topple,” said Uilliam. “The plan has merit.”

  “England won’t stand for it. The tide will be reversed. The God-cursed English will wash in with naught but death and subjugation in their wake.” Hubert could visualize the whole turn of events: a bloody civil war between the fractured Irish kings, an unsteady unification with the promise of peace for Ireland. Then Henry with his longbows and more land hungry barons would flood their emerald shores. Would the Scots side with Ireland? Could both nations plague England enough to win a truce? Of course not, neither the Scots nor Irish could agree to wipe their own noses, let alone stand united against England. “It must stop here. We must get word to High Lord FitzGilbert. That is crucial.”

  “And Henry? Would we seek aide from England?” the Seanascal asked. “It would bode well for us to show allegiance.”

  “Never England. Henry and his advisers will see Ireland take care of itself. With his best interests always foremost in our hearts,” Hubert added sarcastically.

  “Never England, hear, hear! To FitzGilbert and Henry!” the men cheered.

  The Great Hall served as infirmary. No other room could accommodate the sheer volume of patients and attendants. Herbs and remedies simmered in assorted pots in the Great Hearth under the direction of the physician and Lady Aine. All the torches were lit; any reflective metal was utilized to maximize the light. Laundresses sought all the cloth they could safely gather. Women with needle and thread applied their craft to a patchwork of flesh, not linen or wool. Dahlquin Castle was a confined and tightly knit community with no strangers among the residents. Obligation and familial ties bound the members, none were immune from the loss and suffering.

  Eloise rinsed her hands in a bucket of water as Sir Berach was assisted from her table. Then she brushed the stray hairs from her eyes with the back of her wet hand. She and her mother had insisted on having their long sleeves cut off above the elbow exposing their noble forearms before all: a necessity. Fashion was a nuisance in an emergency and the fabric was immediately utilized to bind wounds and staunch blood. One of the cook's aprons was tied on her, the pockets nearly empty of bandages and sewing kit, and the fragrant aroma of kitchen delights long lost in human waste.

  Instead of trays laden with delectable morsels, the tables were piled with torn and burned bodies like some macabre feast of the Underworld. Noise and stench rivaled the foulest slaughterhouse imaginable, yet the hard labors continued: a swamp of blood, fluids and reed flooring oozed underfoot. Another soldier was laid on her table, red hair, freckles, hazel eyes. Hubert, named after her father, though all called him Hughy. Breathing labored, his nose frothed scarlet with each irregular exhalation, as did the lacerations in his chest. Softly she touched his warm cheek. Without response. Turning his head she parted his lips. Blood poured out. She had known him all her life. His was ending.

  “Maiden,” the priest called, leading an unfamiliar knight; a man she had never met and knew nothing of, other than the murmurings about the strangers who secured her drawbridge.

  “You are in gifted hands, truly sir,” the priest said to the knight at his side.

  “Father, by your holy will,” someone cried, “absolution. Hurry!”


  The harried priest shrugged to Eloise then ran to the dying patient, leaving her with a complete stranger and without formal introduction.

  The stocky knight studied her skeptically then looked down without a word.

  Eloise stared back at the injured stranger. Who was he, and why this rude behavior?

  “By your will, sit,” she said awkwardly, patting the thick chamois mat, a dry place on the blood-soaked oak table. The pale stranger tried to sit and Eloise heard his sharp intake of breath, saw him wince as he froze, perched halfway between sitting and standing, his left arm clutching his chest. No foaming or wheezing: relief to her healer's ear.

  “Don’t strain,” she said, searching for an able body to help him.

  “Hmff, I can sit,” he garbled, sucking his bloodied lip as he eased up.

  “I think you have broken ribs.”

  “Didn’t need you to tell me that,” he winced, trying for a wry smile.

  “Let’s not puncture a lung,” she said, first attempting to restrain him then heaving with the effort of helping him, twinging as her own bruised ribs pinched her.

  “Eh?” the knight grunted, seeming to read her distress.

  “Fighting on the scaffolds,” Eloise offered: the unstable footing, weapons to crush her skull or ribs. She focused her eyes, already pushing the memory out of her mind, not a time for fear or tears with so many in need of her care. “Easy,” she said, tilting his head back in examination. Eyes clear, equal dilation and focus. Dried blood in both nostrils, no foaming. His right cheek was swollen and his bottom lip was bit clean through. “Broken teeth?” she asked, palpating his jaw for cracks.

  “Swallowed 'em,” he offered, more color draining from his pale face.

  “That will hurt in a day or two,” she said, placing the back of her hand on his forehead.

  “Hurts now,” he reminded her.

  “In your mouth, of course,” she agreed. “Fever’s not upon you,” she said continuing her examination.

  “Oh, fucking-” he blushed, staring at her, so close, his head in her hands. “You mean, when I-” He grimaced.