Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Eloise nodded, “Umhum. Sharp edges in the garderobe,” she said, placing her ear on his chest.

  “I suppose it will,” he relented, thinking of the discomfort of the sharp-edged teeth when he relieved himself.

  “We can hope for a flux, Saints’ good will upon you,” she said, ear still on his chest.

  The knight snorted then gasped in pain.

  After moving her ear to his right side, she straightened. A strand from her hastily braided hair had come loose and hung across her face.

  “Too many garments,” Eloise said gently tapping the tunic, covering the hauberk, padded gambeson and linen shirt, “I can’t hear your breathing or heartbeat. I’ll be very careful,” she said, unbuckling his girdle then lifting the heavy sword, dagger and leather girdle and placing it all in his lap.

  Standing behind him, she slipped her hands under his four layers of clothing and gently ran her fingers along his ribs, front and back. Sticking her bottom lip out, she blew the annoying strand of hair out of her face.

  Sedric gasped and winced as her fingers probed his ribs.

  “You have at least three breaks. In God's good honesty, Sir, if I can feel them it’s severe. One flail - do you understand? The rib is broken clear through, detached. Mayhap here,” she said, touching the enlargement so he would know precisely. When the knight nodded, Eloise continued. “A punctured lung or other internal damage is still a very real possibility, Sir.”

  She felt him shake his head. Someone howled, reminding them both of the suffering all around.

  “Fight's not over,” he garbled.

  “Your injuries are not insignificant.”

  “Acknowledged,” he said.

  “Am I to know your name, good Sir? It seems we have extended all manner of rudeness and injury upon you, without the merest courtesy or introduction,” she said, her hands still feeling for breaks or further injury.

  “Sedric Synnot, from Leinster, bound for Ashbury-At-March.”

  “Ashbury-At-March?” she asked, not expecting that answer.

  “If the place even exists,” he added.

  “Dead Man's Land does exist, but it's a perilous strip of estate,” she added, forgetting herself for a moment.

  “So I hear. And well hidden, least from us.”

  “Us?” her hands stopped, distracted. “How many are you?” Dahlquin was to have new neighbors. For a brief moment Eloise thought what a joyous occasion this should be, new allies to win over lest they become too cozy with the heinous Scragmuirs. She hooked her loose hair behind her ear. But immediately her mind returned to the carnage wrought by the last strangers Dahlquin had welcomed.

  “There were five of us, Roland, the new Lord of Ashbury-at-March, Sir Guillaume and our two squires. We sent the squires to Ashbury for help before storming your gatehouse and bludgeoning our way in.”

  “That was you?” Eloise asked, again pushing the strand of hair back with her wrist. “I’ve only heard bits and pieces.”

  “Roland was just here,” Sedric said, scanning the Great Hall, “looking for Lord Hubert. I haven’t seen Guillaume.”

  Eloise continued her examination, half listening as Sedric talked. She ran her fingers down Sedric's spine checking for swelling or heat. She heard footsteps.

  “Ah, Roland, you found me,” Sedric said, lifting his hand but unable to wave.

  “A rib out here,” she said, ignoring the shadow that fell across her. “I may be able to manipulate it back.” Her voice trailed off as she gently palpated the region of his kidneys. “Tender?” she asked, feeling him flinch. He didn’t answer. “Sedric? Is there pain?” she asked, pressing slightly.

  “Pain’s upon me,” he grumbled like a guilty child caught in some mischief.

  “Would you hold this up, by your will?” she asked the looming figure standing next to her, wanting to check for injury. Obligingly the figure lifted the four layers of clothing, exposing Sedric's furry back.

  “May you have goodness,” she said without looking up.

  “Any blood in your urine?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sedric answered.

  “Your kidney is swollen. Bruise, laceration. I can’t see under your skin. You were struck fair hard,” she commented, noting the abrasion. “And here?” she asked moving her examination to the other side. Silence. “Here?”

  “Not there,” Sedric said with a shallow sigh.

  Eloise ran both hands down the length of his sides. A second time with her eyes closed. “Definitely heat and swelling on your left side. You’ll have blood in your urine. If it persists for days, by your will tell me.”

  He shrugged.

  “So be it,” she sighed. “Let me try and pop that rib back.” After pushing the annoying strand of hair back yet again, Eloise massaged the area once more to be sure there were not sharp edges or other injury she had overlooked. Satisfied, with both thumbs Eloise pressed: pushing, gentle, firm pressure.

  “Let your breath out,” she coaxed.

  “Angel of Mercy,” Sedric addressed Eloise, “this is my good friend, Roland, the new Lord of Ashbury-at—ugh,” Sedric moaned as Eloise popped the offending rib into place.

  Eloise stood, sighing with satisfaction at the completed adjustment, ready to meet her bold new neighbor, this Lord Roland. But the tall, dark stranger standing before her was gawking at her.

  “What?” she asked, placing a hand on her hip. Blood in slashes or saturated blotches was spread across her apron, along with mucus, brown matter, ash and other aspects of the internal body never intended for viewing. His deep-set brown eyes moved over her in calculating appraisal. Sedric averted his eyes a moment, rubbing his chin, his eyes tearing. With pain, she wondered? Impatience rising, she tucked her chin slightly.

  “Princess! I've been looking for you,” shouted a knight, limping like a hunchback, dripping wet.

  “Cairbre,” Eloise implored, as he made his way to her through the chaotic Hall.

  Smiling, Sir Cairbre started to kneel, reaching for her hem, his movements so stiff and unnatural as to be humorous.

  “Do not,” Eloise scolded, assessing from his stoop and the angle of his arm he had dislocated his shoulder and his comic display of servitude and devotion was an unnecessary risk. But the slightest glimmer of a smile at the edge of her mouth, and perhaps the perplexed looks of Roland and Sedric, only seemed to bolster his antics.

  “Princess, by your will, be merciful,” he begged.

  “Quiet,” she said, reaching for his arm. It was inappropriate to address her as princess before these strangers. She encouraged him to take a seat on the bloody table next to Sedric.

  “Ashbury,” he nodded to Roland, “Sir,” to Sedric.

  “You were about to say, Lord,” she said, turning to Roland again. In the shadow of his long, black hair, his eyes shone like ebony, matching the caked blood on his split brow. Unlike Sedric and Cairbre, both pale with prolonged discomfort, Roland nearly glowed, if one thought of robust men in those terms. Eloise did not.

  “Only that my friend's Angel of Mercy looks more like the butcher’s daughter,” he said.

  “Ho, now,” Cairbre growled, his deep voice edged in warning, glaring at Roland, sweat beading anew on his stained brow.

  Sniffing, Eloise raised a hand, stilling Cairbre. She felt a repressed grin, new and welcome, on her strained face. With a finger she hooked her stubborn lock behind her ear, gave it a tug as if securing it, then straightened.

  “My Lord Neighbor is astute as well as heroic,” she said, her words gracious and melodic, she thought. “I’ve been called many things, good Sir, but that is mayhap the most accurate by far.” Reaching down she lifted the edge of her slept in, dog haired surcoat, spreading the once blue garment in all its ripped and siege-stained glory, a gory testament to her true identity. “Welcome to my Lord Father's slaughterhouse.”

  “Oh, pray not,” Sedric groaned.

  Cairbre chuckled.

  Roland and Sedric both stared, jaws dr
opping as Eloise dipped, genuflecting, her bearing restoring nobility to her abused gown as it billowed around her, settling on the damp reed flooring. The ghastly noise in the Great Hall receded to a pounding din.

  “I’m Maiden Eloise Aine Echna, of Dahlquin. I bid you gracious welcome and our humble appreciation for your bravery at our gatehouse this very day. Grievous sorrow is upon me, that we have naught but a treacherous siege to offer as entertainment.”

  After what seemed an exceedingly adequate length of time, Eloise glanced up at the young Lord of Ashbury-at-March and found him staring down at her. Her own bruised ribs ached from her slip on the scaffolding and standing up would not be as gracefully executed as the curtsy had been. Dahlquin should be strong. Grudgingly, she held out a hand.

  Cairbre cleared his throat. Sedric nudged Roland with his boot.

  Roland took her offered hand and then her elbow, easing her up as she caught her breath.

  “May you have goodness. Again,” she said meeting his gaze.

  His gaze was intense, but not threatening. With the back of his thumb he gently traced the line of her jaw from her ear to her chin, frowning at the abrasion and angry bruise.

  “From your jump?” he asked.

  She inhaled slowly, stifling the simmering emotions of the morning’s exploits, unable to cope if the fear and pain and fury came to the surface. “You miss nothing, my Lord Neighbor.” The trace of his thumb still tingling on her jaw line.

  “Roland,” he said, the hint of a grin softened the lines of his mouth. Blood and grit covered most of his bearded face. His need tugged at her, but her healer's eye could detect nothing dire.

  “It was not from my jump, Lord Roland,” she emphasized his name, “The scaffolding-” she paused, almost smiling, nearly crying, “was a struggle.” Her free hand went to her ribs, and she was struck by two things. One, disappointment she revealed weakness by placing a hand on her bruised ribs, and two that Lord Roland was still holding her other hand.

  He licked his thumb, then rubbed vigorously at a smudge on her cheek, forcing her to close her eye. For a brief moment, Eloise felt she had jumped and was falling again.

  Sharp, irregular breaths then loud gurgling chokes roused her, and she turned quickly to Hughy on the table. Blood foamed at his nostrils and the slashes in his chest. His eyes opened and rolled back. She squeezed his hand. “Go with God, Hughy,” she cooed. Rather than expire, his body eased back to shallow, infrequent breaths.

  “Oh, damn it, Hughy,” Cairbre croaked, shaking his head. “The lad's dying hard.”

  Eloise wiped her fresh tears, smearing more blood on her freshly rubbed cheek. Then she dipped her hands in the bucket of cloudy water, splashing her face. Pay attention, she commanded herself. Heal.

  “First the shoulder,” she said to Cairbre. “Then your mouth,” to Sedric.

  Only when Lord Hubert strode by did people stop their tasks to bow solemnly until he passed. Whispers and murmurs followed in his wake: “It’s His Lordship, see how strong. What power protects him?”

  Urgent business pressed him to be brief. He was a soldier to Ireland and God, but these were his people. Some of his best fighting men lay before him. Bravely he took their offered hands or touched a shoulder and offered a prayer for recovery. Purposefully he made his way amid the pleas to his wife and daughter.

  “My lady,” he said as he dipped his head formally to his wife. She was bent over Tomaltach the archer and bowyer. “I need you and Eloise.”

  Stricken and pale the boy on the table looked up.

  “Tomaltach,” Hubert smiled down at him. The young archer had a deep slice to his left arm and face. “Good man, Tommy.”

  Bolstered, Tommy tried to sit up, but Aine held him down. “I’m not done, this needs binding. Hubert?” she questioned.

  Hubert looked to Tommy. The archer answered, “I’ll wait, Lady. Go.”

  “Wait quietly. Don’t move,” she ordered as Hubert lead her away.

  “Eloise!” her father shouted across the hall.

  Startled, Eloise jumped. Cairbre's arm with which she had been unsuccessfully wrestling relocated to the shoulder with a loud pop, much to her and her patient’s relief.

  She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. Her patient flexed his arm appreciatively.

  “May you have goodness, kindly, Maiden,” he nodded to Eloise. “My Lord, Lady,” he nodded to Hubert and Aine as they approached. “Got shoved down the well,” Cairbre said, “couldn’t climb with my arm.” He rotated it gingerly. “Kids had to pull me up. Kids!” he said with emphasis. “Runny noses and all.”

  “Lord Roland,” Hubert nodded, “just the man I’m looking for.”

  Roland nodded back.

  “My Lady Aine, this is our neighbor, newly granted Lord Roland, Ashbury-at-March. He will surely have some tales of valor and prowess to share with us at some near time.”

  “My Lord Roland,” Aine said taking his offered hand and dipping into a deep, graceful curtsy. “May I welcome you to Dahlquin and extend our deepest gratitude for your assistance today. Sorrow upon me you missed our banquet last night. Today is,” she paused, looking up at him as she rose, “siege day.”

  Hubert continued with the formal introductions to all present before getting down to matters at hand.

  “Roland, if you, Sedric, and Guillaume will join me, we have much to discuss.”

  “We’ll come, but now?” Roland asked.

  Hubert gave him an impatient nod before turning to Eloise. “You and your mother as well.”

  “But,” Eloise said, “I’m not done. I need to stitch his lip,” indicating Sedric.

  All faces turned to Eloise, or so it seemed to her as she felt the burden of her words. As quickly, Sedric looked down.

  Hubert said to her mother, “The meeting chamber.”

  Grateful not to be reprimanded, Eloise was still bothered to be called away when she had unfinished injuries before her, her mind and hands poised and ready to help. She followed her mother.

  “Maiden,” Alsandair called hoarsely as Eloise and her mother passed on their way out, “Maiden, a word?”

  “Sit, don’t get up,” Eloise instructed, moving to the small group with him. “Of course.” Eloise scanned the faces, all familiar. One of the cook’s assistants restrained Alsandair. Realization: She was “Lovey,” the voice Eloise couldn’t place last night. Eloise tried to smile at all the worn and blackened faces sitting before her.

  Her tears plopped on Alsandair’s lap and his nose as Eloise bent and kissed his bandaged forehead. “Goodness upon you, Alsandair,” she said as she took his hands. Warm, natural, not a fever she noted with relief. “You saved me.”

  “Now it’s your turn,” Alsandair said, as he lifted her hands away. “I’ve but one good eye, by God,” he said, tapping under that eye with his finger, “and I won’t know contentment till I see you triumphant, you and your father, with Tiomu's head on a lance.” The soldier saluted her, a grimace across his bandaged face. “We’ll be waiting,” he said, still tapping under his good eye.

  “I’ll pray for you,” the others murmured, almost in unison. “God be with you, Maiden, don’t forget us.”

  Eloise and her mother continued to the physician’s chamber to clean up a bit and retrieve some healing remedies. They washed their hands and faces. Eloise squirmed and squealed as her mother scrubbed her hands with ash and sand.

  “Think of the suffering you have left,” her mother scolded. “It’s bad enough you met our new neighbors with your hands so stained and disreputable.”

  Once again dirty hands were a sin, why? Eloise opened her mouth, to question.

  “Fortitude and obedience,” Aine said using a wooden pick to scrape under Eloise’s fingernails. Eloise turned her attention to the crisis before them.

  “Mathair, since we’re here, I must get a purgative and kidney-ease.” Her mother nodded.

  “I too must replenish,” her mother said, quickly scanning the room.

&nb
sp; Eloise had never seen the orderly chamber so unkempt. Drawers left open, cabinet doors ajar to reveal half-empty shelves. And still so many ailing kin waiting for relief.

  Next, they applied some soothing lotion; it smelled heavenly and with eyes closed, Eloise held her hands to her nose and inhaled the almond essence. Even with eyes closed, Eloise could not erase the images of battered or gouged flesh, her people, in the Great Hall.

  Roland, Sedric and Guillaume were escorted by Reginald into the meeting chamber. Two long tables were arranged end to end, with two benches against the wall. Four men filled one bench and a fifth sat on the other. A haggard squire limped briskly to light all the sconces. The five men stood, saluting Reginald, as Roland and his companions entered. Formal introductions were made between Roland and his men and Sir Uilliam, fourth in the chain of command from Lord Hubert, Aine, and Reginald. Bairre, the Armory Steward, and Sirs Cairbre, Maine, and Faeloch crowded on the one bench, leaving the second for Roland, Reginald, Sedric and Guillaume.

  The door opened and a steward came in with two candelabras; behind him the wine steward and two porters entered bearing trays laden with pitchers and cups, and another with a small cask. Behind them, three more porters bore platters of head cheese, cured meat, pickled cabbage, onions and bread.

  “Ale only,” the wine steward said.

  “Bless you, sir,” Uilliam said. “Take that over wine any day.”

  “Finest ale in Connacht,” Cairbre said to contented sighs and smiles.

  “Long as it lasts,” the wine steward reminded them.

  Seeing the platters of food arranged on the long tables caused a distant ache in the pit of Roland's stomach. Up until now, he had been too engaged in survival to think about eating. Sedric's stomach gurgled just as the porters were putting full cups of the dark, rich ale in their grateful hands.

  “May you have goodness,” Roland nodded, lifting the cup to the steward in tribute. Roland inhaled deeply as if the aroma of the ale itself might satisfy his thirst and the desire for the comforts imbibing alone could quench. He took in the hearty aroma, anticipating the mild bitter and the subtly sweet - and the faintest trace of apple, he wondered? He tried to ignore the usual acrid smell of so many overworked bodies occupying the confines of this meeting chamber.