Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  ASHBURY UNDER SIEGE, 9th of June

  Lord Ashbury flinched with each step as he limped down the corridor on his wooden crutches. Eoch flinched with him, sharing the pain in spirit. During the race back to Ashbury castle, and despite Eoch’s august efforts to shield him from the attackers, Albert took an arrow to his left buttock, an ignoble injury for the Lion of Ashbury to incur.

  “Is this how God rewards his avenging Pilgrims?” Eoch mocked, “You, my esteemed Lord, a surviving veteran of the third attempt to reclaim the Holy Land from the vermin heretics of Saladin.”

  “It’s what I deserve for heeding your sage advice to expose my backside and return to the castle,” Albert countered, for that was the sum of it. Shot in the arse for running away.

  “And who suffers your pain with each step and breath? On whose command did I take up the cowardly bow, forsaking my shield of servitude? Eh?” Eoch asked.

  Albert wasn’t looking at Eoch, but he could imagine the arched eyebrow and the deprecating expression of his loyal and flagrant companion. Albert grinned - not with his face, but in his soul.

  “Our pain is so great, I need crutches,” Eoch said.

  The sound of coughing echoed off the stone walls as Albert and Eoch made their way towards the Great Hall. A torch burned from a wall mount. Four men-at-arms sat on the floor together, backs to the wall. One of them, Sir Orin, had a leg bent with both arms wrapped around the knee. His other leg was extended with a thick wrap round this thigh. Next to Orin was a soldier, Cormac. Both his legs were bent, his arms crossed upon his knees, and his head rested upon the lot. His right hand was wrapped in bloody bindings. Next to him was another soldier, Ailbe, who appeared unscathed as he sat with his knees well bent, his head propped against the wall, eyes closed. Last was the archer named Albert after the Lion of Ashbury. The archer never spoke, though he was neither deaf nor dumb.

  “Greetings, warriors of Ashbury!” Eoch hailed.

  Albert saw all four men, startled to see Sir Eoch and himself approaching, scramble to kneel. Ailbe was quick to assist Orin.

  “Hold!” Albert called out. He balanced on his crutches and motioned with his hands that they remain where they were. “Stay seated. I only wish I could join you,” he added with a wry smile, then tenderly placed his left hand just above the injury to his back side.

  “Cormac,” Albert said, “what news, man? Still waiting?” Cormac’s wife was the second woman to go into labor during the siege. Ashbury had welcomed one new daughter with the first rays of the fog-shrouded sun. Whether through her cries of release, or her anguished mother’s cries of relief, the challenge had been taken up by Cormac’s wife. Life was always in the balance, Albert knew.

  “We’re waiting, my Lord, with yours and God’s will.” The young man’s voice was wary, but Cormac gave a half smile, revealing his bloody mouth and cracked teeth. His left eye was nearly swollen shut. Part of his left ear was missing: an old injury, revealing Cormac still let his left guard down.

  Albert studied the young man. From the hoary age of seventy-two, most of his men appeared as mere boys to him. Cormac had anguish streaked across his battle-riddled face.

  “And?” asked Albert with a shrug, encouraging Cormac to speak.

  “It’s a breech,” Cormac said, revealing the source of his anguish. “The babe caught fast for hours. But the midwife says he’ll be delivered very soon now.” He gasped, which started a fit of coughing.

  “We’re keeping vigil,” Orin said, reaching over Ailbe to give Cormac a hearty shove, “can’t have Cormac alone when his son arrives feet first. That’s a cautious and prudent boy, I am thinking, checking the waters first thing before plunging in headfirst.”

  “So he is,” acknowledged Eoch, “and eager to take up the fight against the traitorous U’Neill as well.”

  “Ailbe?” Albert asked, shifting the focus to the other father-to-be.

  “Confinement, sir,” Ailbe answered, “still in confinement. My wife has another fortnight, God willing. May you have goodness for remembering, Lord,” he said before a deep cough racked him.

  “God willing,” Cormac said, crossing himself as his coughing slowed.

  “God willing, indeed,” Orin called out. “And where be the god-cursed lads with our drink?”

  There was a brief pause while all the men waited for the answer no one had. The torch fluttered and a thin line of black smoke coiled toward the center of the corridor.

  “My Lord Albert, Sir Eoch,” Orin continued, “I would invite you stay and share an imbibement, but alas,” and he started to shout, “we’re abandoned by our unsuccessful ale-hunters.” Raising his voice caused him to cough as well. Now three men coughed, wet and labored, as if by some sympathetic reflex. The ominous sound of lung-plague rattled Albert. It was near summer solstice, yet his men rasped as if winter’s disease had infested them. Or siege disease.

  “Siege or not, a man must have drink!” agreed Eoch, raising his voice to be heard over the coughing. “My Lord, with your gracious leave, I will once again attend to your needs by pillage and seizure.”

  Albert nodded his head and Eoch departed. Was it just yesterday morning, he reflected? He, Eoch and his men; such a trivial escapade it now seemed, to raid the kitchens and embark on a fortuitous pre-dawn hunt. Albert looked upon them, two still coughing. Yesterday was a lifetime ago for many. Some had lost their lives in service to Ashbury. He knew each by name, lineage and function. And from yesterday forward, all of Ashbury were forever affected, like a famine or plague, pilgrimage or flood, their lives would forever be marked relative to this siege by the Ulstermen. And for some, lovers, parents, this was a new beginning.

  “God’s blood,” Albert said out loud, “every day.” He paused; why limit himself to the dawn? “And again, I say God’s blood and the myriad of blood, bowels and boils. Every moment is a new beginning, eh?”

  All four men looked up at him, questioning, coughing.

  “An opportunity to live, to be the glory,” Albert continued. His men stared respectfully, not fully grasping the import, the whims of God and Fate. He sighed, “Orin, your thigh. What misfortune?” Albert asked, saving the philosophical lecture for a more receptive audience.

  “Like you, my Lord, an arrow,” Orin answered. “And your remedy, Lord,” he scowled and shook his head with the memory. “Savior Jesus, I cried out like a branded calf, Sir. I don’t lie. How did you devise such a wicked treatment?” Orin grasped his leg as if the pain had returned.

  Albert shook his head, too. “Aqua vitae?”

  Orin nodded his head.

  “Branded calf you say. I howled some blasphemy myself, Orin,” Albert said, remembering the searing pain as he lay across the board, clutching the rough wood. First the arrow was removed from his left buttock with torturously slow deliberation - to save the flesh and muscle the physician claimed. Curse the bastard. Then the lifesaving water of life was poured into the humiliating wound. Curse the Maid of Dahlquin, for it was her remedy. “But it’s effective,” Albert said, though his eyes teared with the memory.

  “What? The blasphemy? I could’ve screamed that without the waste of whiskey on my leg. Blessed Mother save me,” Orin said, and then coughed. “Think of my disappointment, my outstretched hands begging the cup of your finest, Lord. Instead of holding the vessel to my needy lips, the bastard dribbled it on my savaged flesh. Fucking Hell fire, like a branding iron, I swear. Why?” Orin implored.

  “Why, Lord, why pour good whiskey upon the wound?” Cormac asked. “That is a blasphemy.”

  The silent archer, Albert, pointed to Cormac, nodding his head in agreement, then mimicked pouring a cup upon his leg, with a scowling frown of disapproval. Then palms up, he shrugged with a tilt to his head, why indeed?

  “Fair waste,” Ailbe agreed, as he looked down the corridor wishing, as they all did, that some potent drink of health and heaven was soon to be delivered.

  “Yule last. The fourth day of Christmas,” Albert reminded them all, leanin
g on his crutches so his hands were again free. “My god-daughter, sweet, gentle Maiden Eloise from Dahlquin and her nurse were visiting.”

  The men nodded.

  “I remember,” Cormac said, “with the dancing grey stallion.”

  Orin chuffed, and the archer, silent Albert, blushed with his smile.

  “A grand beast, him,” Lord Albert concurred.

  “I’d be dancing too, were she riding me,” Orin added.

  “Ha,” Ailbe chuckled, “golden spurs, but naught else.”

  “Dancing or bucking, her choice, that?” Orin answered, his laughter starting him to cough again.

  “Quiet, Lord Hubert will hear you from this very spot,” Albert counseled. “You may owe my god-daughter your very leg or life.”

  “So, you were explaining, Lord,” Cormac said.

  Albert resumed his story. “We had a cook with a severe cut, nearly sliced a finger off,” Albert held up a hand to show them the fingers in question. “Maid Eloise treated him right there in the kitchen. Wiped away the blood, assessed the wound and demanded aqua vitae. Like you, the shocked cook thought his thirst was to be sated, but the little-” Albert paused. He was going to say vixen, but revised his description of Eloise, “my beloved, kindly god-daughter dipped his bleeding fingers in the cup.” Albert dipped two fingers in an imaginary cup. “The cook fainted clear away.” “I believe he would,” Orin said, crossing himself. The other men followed his example.

  “He survived,” Albert said before continuing. “I suffered a minor injury myself, slipped on the steps, ground my knuckles nearly to bone. I tried the Maid’s remedy, aqua vitae for hand and gut,” Albert flexed his hardened, gnarled hand. He held both hands out and compared them in the flickering, smoky torch light. Not a scar, not a trace of the age-induced fall. “Water of Life is a healing agent, before God.”

  “But it scalds like Satan’s bitch,” Eoch said, returning with three porters in tow, two laden with skin bags, sliced cheese and pickled eggs. The third had a thick pad and blanket.

  “The best arrangement I could concoct, My Lord. A cushioned dais.”

  “May you have goodness, Eoch,” Mor said, stepping out of the shadowed corridor, “as you said, My Lord Husband and his worthy court.” She had a wee child in her arms.

  Once again, all four men on the floor were startled into action and rushed to kneel in their Lady’s presence.

  “Da,” the child in Mor’s arms called. “Da,” the child said again, little arms reaching out as Mor set the toddler upon the floor.

  “Gerdie,” Cormac said, catching his son in his arms and squeezing the boy tight, suppressing the deep coughs.

  Mor nodded to each man. Her features were worn, but the dim light masked the deep lines and imperfections. In fact, Albert noticed her features had a softness he had not seen in the days before the siege.

  “Cormac,” she said, “I’ve come straight away from the lying-in chamber. You, good sir, are the father of a fine and fit daughter, feet first, with clenched fists and soft downy hair. Your wife sends her apology that it isn’t the second son you hoped for. But, Cormac,” Mor went on, “she is a treasure, a living treasure of God’s love. You have been blessed.”

  “Prosit, Cormac!” Albert boomed. The other men followed with congratulatory praise, patting and shoving.

  “If you wish to see your wife and daughter-,” Mor started to say, extending the invitation.

  Cormac was already waving his friends farewell. “With your leave, Lord,” he said bowing to Albert, Gerdie still clutched to his chest. “I would very much like to be with my family.”

  “And so you should,” Albert agreed.

  Eoch pressed himself against the wall, in an exaggerated fashion so all knew Cormac’s path was clear and none stood between him and his women.

  Cormac’s cough echoed off the stone walls as he jogged to wife and infant daughter.

  “And prosit to you, Our Lady Mor,” Eoch said, lifting one of the skin bags to her. “It seems we may well owe our very lives to you. Without your wise, or even prescient counsel that we remove our obstreperous selves from the confines of the orderly castle, we wouldn’t have foiled the surprise attack of our truculent U’Neill cousin.”

  “Slaughtered in our own beds, mayhap,” Ailbe said.

  “Or someone’s bed,” Orin muttered, with a wink.

  “My Lady,” Albert said, “once again I and all Ashbury salute your sagacity.”

  “My Lord Husband,” Mor said, dipping her head, “I am your humble student, Sir. I learn and live by your exemplary conduct for the glory of Ashbury.”

  DAHLQUIN CASTLE, DAY THREE OF THE SIEGE, 10th of June

  Stone missiles continued to rain upon Dahlquin on a regular basis, eating away at the mighty fortress walls, but the real hazard was to the castle inhabitants. Death and injury hung over the defenders hourly. U’Neill’s men launched a diseased carcass into the compound with the hope to contaminate the well or sicken the defenders. The debris not returned by Asp was dispatched to any of the numerous fires kept alight.

  Human resources were in abundance. Dahlquin was well garrisoned with archers and crossbowmen. Skilled and deliberate, they manned the embrasures throughout the castle walls night and day, though all knew their bolts and arrows were in limited supply.

  Natural resources were the weakness. Food and arms were rationed with brutal efficiency. Each day the siege continued was a day the countryside was raped by the attackers. Crops and livestock were stripped and consumed. Nothing was stored. Fields lay fallow. The growing season was short enough without a complete cessation.

  “Here they come again!” shouted Hubert as the sun sank in the western sky, leaving them to fight in summer's long twilight.

  “Steady!” called the captains of each station.

  Eluding the mighty trebuchet, two large, wooden siege towers were pushed simultaneously against the walls of Dahlquin Castle. Each tower was four stories high, and each story held ten armed men ready to ascend upon their enemy. Permeated with water, the leather-clad structures were near impossible to ignite. Bolstered from below, they were strong and steady.

  “Missiles!” ordered Hubert. “Now!”

  Oil-soaked projectiles were launched, short-range into the towers. The first simply rolled off the slanted roofs and spilled ineffectively to the moat.

  “Again!” Hubert shouted.

  With adjustments made, a second volley was lobbed into the siege towers, only to be deflected. No life was exempt from helping repel this nemesis, all able-bodied men and women were utilized in the engagement.

  The trebuchet was abandoned as the inhabitants clamored to repel the invaders. Babies and the smallest of children were tucked away in the infirmary. The very elderly, sick and dying were left to keep vigil and pray. Eloise, Aine and her attendants took up crossbowmens’ positions.

  It was difficult to push away the towers with single poles. Ladders had strength and durability, and the strength of many men could be harnessed, but could as easily be traversed. As the flaming missiles continued, a company of men labored to shove the gargantuan siege towers over with the ladders.

  “Push!” shouted the team leaders. “Push, God damn you! Put your backs into it!”

  Each man, baker and clerk alike, heaved and pushed, willing themselves to have the strength of twelve oxen. Shirtless, their sweat-soaked torsos glistened in the firelight, their grunts lost in the din of battle.

  Children ran the stone stairs and wooden scaffolds with armloads of fuel. They stoked the fires, heating the kettles of oil to be spilled off the walls onto the attackers. Anything spilt inside the castle was cleaned. The youngest labored under skin bags of water and wine for the able defenders.

  Women assisted in lobbing the flaming projectiles or pushing against the siege towers as their talent allowed. All were exhausted and spent as Tim’U’Neill launched this late-afternoon assault.

  “Push!” the captain shouted again. “The Danes will have you af
ter your wives and daughters! Now push! God knows they will!”

  “Now!” Hubert ordered. Another volley of flaming missiles, bolts and arrows was launched upon the ever-encroaching siege towers. Screams and howls emanated from one of them; several men jumped from their positions within the inferno. The defenders cheered wildly, resuming their tasks with renewed vigor.

  As enormous grappling hooks were launched from the towers over the castle wall, the defenders wrestled to dislodge them. Too slow to evade the metal claw, one man was pinned to the wall. His blood ran warm and slippery along the metal and stone. His comrades couldn’t free him or the dangerous attachment. U’Neill’s men climbed out, fighting and anchoring the tower.

  Hubert and his soldiers descended upon the armed invaders. With pickaxes and poles they fought to shove the men off as more soldiers continued to ascend the tower and empty in their multitude upon the Dahlquin defenders.

  “Push, you Danish whores!” the captain commanded. “Push!” With a long groan, the defenders were shoved back with the momentum of the tower. “Push the bloody wads back to Hell!” They did.

  Black smoke billowed from the burning siege tower. Screams and shouts and acrid smoke permeated the senses. Darkness descended with the smoke, defender and attacker alike fought blindly, choked by ash and stench. A huge cracking noise deafened all, then the splintering of wood.