by Anne Beggs
“For you, Sir, with our Lady's special regards,” the wine steward said, placing a cup in Reginald's good hand.
Reginald lifted his cup steadily, spilling not a drop. “To the Lady of Dahlquin,” he toasted. He looked like a man possessed. His hair was wild and askew; dried and caked blood caused tufts to stand at odd, spiked angles. Dirt, grime, sweat and blood ringed his face and filled in the deep lines making him look grotesque. Even his thick, crenellated ears looked menacing. And that hand - how was it the man could walk with such an injury?
“Lady of Dahlquin,” the others responded, lifting their cups. They all drank.
The door swung open. Roland watched two knights enter, followed by Hubert, tall and purposeful.
“The Lord Butcher himself,” Guillaume muttered, nudging Roland as they stood, moving his finger under his chin, mimicking a slit throat.
“I still can't believe you called her that,” Sedric grumbled, his breath shallow.
Roland shrugged. How was he to know? He was embarrassed enough by his words, but for Sedric to reveal that social blunder to Guillaume was beyond stupid. Roland gripped Sedric’s upper arm, helping him stand in the least obvious way.
“He said she was flattered,” Guillaume muttered. “Eh, Roland? Flattered and frightening.”
“Frightening? How so?” asked Sedric.
Roland snorted. Frightened, so he was, by what he saw, deep in her eyes. Trying to ignore his friends’ harassment, Roland returned his attention to Lord Hubert.
Hubert had his fist extended, and Lady Aine rested her hand upon it, appearing to glide into the room at her husband's side, the infamous heretic of Dahlquin. For the second time Roland observed how small she was, especially in contrast to her husband and the armed men around her. As chatelaine, a large set of keys hung from her sturdy girdle as well as a full leather pouch. Behind them came Eloise, also remarkably small, with maybe an inch or two of height on her mother, dwarfed by three enormous, wire-haired hounds surrounding her. With claws and wings they could have been chimeras. The door closed behind them.
The knights and stewards lined up, then dropped to their knees, heads bowed. The porters fell to their knees where they were.
Setting their half-empty cups on the table, Roland, Sedric and Guillaume followed Reginald to the line.
Guillaume knelt. Sedric collapsed to the floor. Foolish gesture, Roland thought, when Sedric could barely move. Reginald confirmed Roland's inclination to remain standing with a curt nod. Roland was unsure of Connacht etiquette. Why should his own men kneel to Hubert? He wasn’t king. Was this an insult? To Roland? Or FitzGilbert? Then Reginald seemed to step almost behind him. Why?What was the hierarchy here? Shouldn't Reginald stand with the Dahlquin men, rather than at the end of the line with him? Roland wondered, trying to find the pattern of order.
As they walked down the receiving line, each knight thanked and blessed Hubert and Aine, then in turn reached for the bloodstained hem of Aine's surcoat in an effort to kiss it, which she would not allow, instead taking their hands in her free one.
Aine blessed and thanked each by name as they placed their foreheads on the back of her hand before kissing it.
At first Eloise was a reflection of her parents’ statures, head up, shoulders back, commanding. But Roland noted her bottom lip quivering. She sucked it in.
“Princess,” Cairbre said to Eloise, his shoulders hunching as he grabbed her hem. “Forgive my weakness,” he blurted, thin voiced.
“Do not,” Eloise said, voice quavering, grasping his hands in her own.
Roland's stomach growled loudly, and he didn't hear whatever else she said. He watched as Cairbre buried his face in their entwined hands and Eloise bent and kissed his bowed head. Cairbre held fast to her hands as she straightened. Slipping one hand free, she patted the stout leather pouch on her girdle.
She turned, teary eyed. Studying her parents’ backs, it seemed to Roland. She squared her shoulders before moving to the next knight kneeling before her, who in turn took her offered hands, laying his forehead on the backs before kissing them.
“Lord Roland,” Hubert addressed, standing before him as if from nowhere.
Roland snapped his attention to Hubert and Aine. He was more fatigued than he thought or distracted. Two of the hounds sniffed at him, neither snarling nor wagging their tails. Neutral.
“We’ll break bread over discussion of Tiomu's treachery,” Hubert said, his blue eyes sharp, more so because of their deep lines around them, like claw marks.
“Again, our gracious goodness upon you, Lord Roland, and welcome,” Aine said, dipping her head. Roland felt warmly received as he took her offered hand, clean scrubbed. The aroma of almonds and honey was intoxicating. Her green eyes were equal in intensity to her husband's, but without the harshness. Anguish. A casualty of warfare, Roland thought, with so much more to come. Her thick blonde braid hung to her knees. He nodded as she and Hubert moved on.
Guillaume drew his attention; his friend's mischievous blue eyes gleamed. Then Guillaume returned his focus to Lady Aine's regal backside.
The Lady looked over her shoulder with a penetrating gaze first on the kneeling Guillaume, and then to Roland. She tipped her head slightly, but her green eyes held steady on Roland. Then she turned, floating at her husband's side to the table.
Roland felt a tug on his surcoat and glanced down at Guillaume.
“Succubus,” Guillaume mouthed silently up to Roland, before his mouth curled into a lascivious grin. Roland scowled; hunger forgotten as his bowels lurched. He looked quickly behind him to be sure Reginald, the living gargoyle, hadn't seen, but before he could ask Guillaume if he were fucking mad.
“Sedric, may you have goodness again, Sir,” Eloise said taking Sedric's hands, trying to encourage him to rise. Roland watched her smile turn to a frown. She placed the back of her hand on his cheek, then his forehead. “Fever is upon you, Sir.”
Sedric was red-cheeked, but Roland suspected it was fever of a different sort that burned his friend. The big hound at her side licked Sedric's face.
Eloise patted the leather pouch hanging from her girdle. “I’ve brought you some purgative and wound and kidney heal. We’ll tend to that lip, too. By your will, I beg you have a seat and rest.”
“Roland,” Guillaume whispered, tugging Roland's surcoat. Roland glared down at his intrusive friend, remembering he needed to reprimand this continued rudeness.
“Twin succubi!” Guillaume mouthed, rolling his eyes first at Eloise then towards her mother. Immediately he bowed his head piously as Eloise approached, and before Roland could chastise him.
“Fair and gracious daughter of the abattoir,” Guillaume moaned softly, grasping not her hands, but her surcoat at about knee height, pulling the fabric to his face. “I’m but a humble Leinstermen, now of Dead Man's Land. My name is Guillaume of Guillford, and I wish you may have goodness and bless you for the kindness you have bestowed upon my brother, Sedric, and my ill spoken Lord Roland.”
“May you have goodness, Sir,” she said, standing as far back from Guillaume as the fabric of her surcoat would allow. It came to Roland's attention that the ladies had removed their ghastly aprons. Eloise was wearing a light blue surcoat, a pleasant color on her. Her lips were thin, pale pink, lighter than the pink of her tear-swollen eyes. “Lord Roland, we meet again,” she said, blue-grey eyes imploring. Do something. He's your man.
Beyond her plea, within the blue-grey depths, was the visage. He couldn't blink or breathe. He had seen the same vision in her eyes in the Great Hall. Before he could react, Reginald pushed past him, lips pursed, his hazel eyes slits, as he took Eloise's elbow.
“Off,” he directed, in a malice-infused whisper, and Guillaume fell back on his heels.
Eloise glanced at her uncle with appreciation. Horror replaced her gratitude. The binding over his left hand was soaked with blood.
“Uncle Reggie!” she gasped. “What happened?”
“Tiomu's men,” he said, l
eading her to the table where her parents waited.
Eloise took his hand, examining the bindings, the blackened, shriveled fingers, oblivious to the knights joining them around the table, as Uilliam directed the three men from Ashbury-at-March to the end opposite Lord Hubert. Aine stood to his right. Eloise and Reginald stood to the left.
“Your hand must come off,” she said, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. “This will poison your body,” she continued, studying the binding.
“That's what your mother and the physician claim.”
Eloise gave him a questioning look.
“I'll not live as a cripple.”
“Not a cripple, it's just your shield arm,” she whispered, shaking her head. Tentatively she extended a finger, touching the knuckle of his stiff pointer finger, then traced down its cold, black length to the dead fingernail. Fresh, new tears blistered her cheeks. Her stomach turned inside out. Uncle Reggie had always been there for her. Like her father, Uncle Reggie was invincible. It was not possible for him to be defeated. He was second in command, and besides his brother, he was her father’s dearest friend next to Gerald FitzGilbert of Leinster. Eloise had witnessed his prowess in practice many times and heard the tales of his accomplishments…he always recovered.
Her Nurse and Sean murdered in her own bedchamber. Donegal, Eoin, those in the infirmary, now Uncle Reggie. Eloise trembled. This was too much grief. There had never been such a day in all her life. It seemed her loved ones dropped dead around her as did the firstborn of Egypt.
“You’re safe, Ellie,” he murmured, putting his right arm around her, pulling her close, so strong, even now. Her head rested well under his chin, feeling the circular metal rings of his chain mail under his stained surcoat, pressed against her cheek. Wrapping her arms around his barrel chest, she inhaled the familiar fragrance of sweat and blood and leather. He took slow, easy breaths to calm her down. Eloise didn’t give in to the heaving sobs hovering under the surface. She would not. “You’re safe. That’s all I ever wanted.” he said. Grief receded slowly with each deep breath Reggie took. Eloise matched his breathing, slow, steady. Uncle Reggie. Drying her tears. As always.
Beast nudged at her leg with his head, then leaned against her and sat on her foot.
“We are Dahlquin,” Reginald started, “Family, God, Crown.”
The Dahlquin oath, the pledge of fealty earned and bestowed was as familiar as the Hail Mary prayer or her own name. Reggie squeezed her and she joined him reciting the oath.
“I am your man,” she heard her father’s voice, solidifying the code, the rest of the men and Aine joining in, words reborn in her soul as she formed them. Eloise pushed out of her uncle’s embrace to stand on her own, as her parents, the knights, stewards and porters did, each reciting: “And pledge before all gods to defend your land and kin, against your enemies and Satan until the end of days.” The power of the oath filled Eloise’s ears as everyone lifted their cups, “Dahlquin!”
No one sat. All waited for Lord Hubert.
Hubert and Reginald shared a long gaze. The corner of Reggie's mouth flinched; her father's eye squinted. It seemed neither man took a breath. So much had passed between the brothers over the years. Eloise recognised her father might have to face the world without his brother. Of course, Reginald knew he left his lord brother, sister-in-law and niece to face the world without him to guard their backs. Could a lifetime of memories pass between them in a single glance? There was naught to say. They knew it. They also knew what must be done. Death was nothing, duty everything.
Hubert looked over the bandaged wrist. The hand was mangled and deformed from loss of blood and nerves, an impediment to holding a shield. At Reginald’s insistence, her mother had not removed his doomed hand, but must have cauterized the wound to staunch the bleeding. How could he persevere? Such an injury would kill most and leave the rest comatose. Yet Uncle Reggie was here. Why had her mother allowed that useless appendage to remain? This was powerful medicine. Eloise was learning much.
Reginald laid his left arm out, palm up on the wooden table before Hubert.
Like Eloise, everyone stared in mute absorption.
In a moment of unusual drama Hubert removed his sword, Custos, from its scabbard. He examined it. The blade caught the candlelight, twinkling as he tilted it to and fro to examine the metal for dirt or flaws. Custos: Latin for guardian, and so it was. Satisfied it was in perfect working order he lifted the sword high over his head and brought it down with the swiftness of an executioner.
“Father!” gasped Eloise, as the chamber boomed with the sound of impact.
The sudden movement and ferocity with which Hubert moved caused the men in the cramped room to jump involuntarily. It appeared Hubert used his sword to cut through Reginald’s wrist, bone and all. The legend of Sir Reginald’s power and loyalty would be further enhanced by the tales of men who saw Lord Hubert chop his injured hand clean off, then witness Reginald sit at the table, accept his Lord's blessing and dine with the assembly. It made an indelible mark on the minds and souls of those present. Dahlquin was graced by God.
DAHLQUIN CASTLE, 9th of June
Summoned, Eloise stood at her father's side along with her mother and Reggie, all of them looking down from the foremost wall. Archers and crossbow men were in every tower and along the ramparts, waiting for Hubert’s order to resume shooting.
Tiomoid U’Neill had called for a cease-fire; he wanted to negotiate.
“Lord Hubert!” Tiomoid U’Neill called out at the gatehouse. “Hubert! Let us talk. You are lost.”
Tiomoid U’Neill stood behind a large, long shield. He seemed stout, solid and dark-haired, but not much of him was exposed. Still, how easy to drop him with a bolt or arrow. Was it truly necessary to honor a cease fire called by such a traitor?
“U’Neill, take your men and go! There’s naught for you here,” Hubert shouted down to him.
“Hubert, listen,” Tiomoid called up to him, “lay down your arms and join me. It’s not too late.”
“Never! You are not king here U’Neill, nor shall you be.”
“Hubert, Ashbury falls as we speak. You can’t stand alone. United we’ll take Meath, Munster, and all else who stand in our way.”
That can’t be true, Eloise prayed, not Ashbury, for they too were like family. Tiomoid U’Neill had as many cousins in Ashbury as he was killing here. What malice.
“And Leinster? FitzGilbert will never bow to you,” Hubert shouted back.
“You’re the real power behind Leinster. Everyone knows the truth of it. FitzGilbert grows soft.”
“Tiomoid's trying to win you over with flattery,” Reggie said. “Connacht is the key.”
“Lies, Tiomu!” Hubert shouted back. “We’ve naught to discuss.”
“Look about you, man! This isn’t the whole of my army. I have the might of Denmark and Norway. They, too, have a stake in the affairs of Tara. England is through.”
Hubert glanced at Aine, Reggie and then Eloise.
“The Hebrides are not to be counted on. But Denmark?” Hubert mused to his assembled family.
“Is the King of Denmark in on this?” Reggie asked.
Aine said nothing but shook her head just slightly.
“Denmark, probably not,” Hubert agreed. “Tiomoid U’Neill hasn’t the influence to sway Denmark. Even so-,” he said, fixing his stern gaze on Eloise.
She studied her father's countenance. The lines on his face had become deep fissures as if reflecting the damage wrought upon the exterior of their castle, but the blue steel in his gaze blazed, handsomely stoked with burning resolve.
“Dahlquin will never capitulate,” he finished. She blinked hearing his words. They were so clearly etched on his face she already knew them.
“Hubert, you are a thoughtful lord. Save your kinsmen!” It seemed Tiomoid was trying to manipulate Dahlquin a bit. Maybe petty hatred could be used to Tiomoid’s own use. “Hubert, Ashbury falls. Join me now and Scragmuir will be next. With
our combined forces Scragmuir will be vanquished. Dust! Then naught will stand in our way!” Tiomoid shouted up to Hubert.
Eloise could hear the murmurs along the ramparts, “Scragmuir vanquished, imagine it.” She felt the surge herself, almost transported from her role as besieged to that of attacker, with her mortal enemy pulverized.
Tiomoid looked out, smiled, scanning the castle, as if ready to kindle any sign of complicity.
“Scragmuir vanquished indeed,” Hubert muttered, turning again to Eloise. “Tiomu hasn't the might to sway Denmark or the Hebrides.”
“Probably not,” Reggie agreed, “but he has resource enough below.”
Already Dahlquin resorted to using debris from its very own walls and structures for return in the trebuchet. No one spoke of defeat, yet. That pleased her father. Dahlquin would stand firm another day. After that…
“Good luck with Scragmuir!” Hubert shouted back at his adversary. “If you can take them, you’re a better man than I.” The men of Dahlquin laughed and jeered at the traitors outside their castle. Their resolve held.
“Hubert! Think of it, Scragmuir at your feet!” Tiomoid tried yet again.
“Bah, Scragmuir stands fast for Gerald FitzGilbert and England’s boy king. So does Dahlquin. Denmark! Norway, Scotland!” Hubert shouted to the assembled army. “Go home, there’s naught for you here but death. Ireland will never submit to this false U’Neill. I suggest you take cover. This truce is over.” Hubert turned his back on them and retreated. He would have the last word. “Let fly,” he said to Uilliam, indicating the Asp.
Eloise watched the assaulting army go mad with rage and shouts. Tiomoid lost this round, would he have another? Dahlquin was outnumbered and without reinforcement. Tiomu need but sit idly by for Dahlquin to starve. Would Scragmuir join his assault? Would another family come to their aid?
The flaming ball hurled from the heart of Dahlquin drew everyone’s attention. Ghastly cries emanated from the projectile as an arc of yellow-orange flames and black smoke tumbled screaming across the sky, a banshee proclaiming death. Dahlquin’s trebuchet engineer was but a few feet off from where Tiomoid U’Neill stood. Stinging from Hubert's dismissal, Tiomu was livid and he was almost hit with this fiery missile. He strode in for a closer look as the flames died. His eyes stung. The stench of burnt flesh was unmistakable. Tiomu and his men covered their noses. Eyelids burnt off, red hair singed and smoldering, Tiomu barely recognised the charred mass before him as Sir Byron. The dying man convulsed and shuddered. Tiomoid U’Neill was sick with it and vomited. Hubert was a barbarian.
