Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “We’ve done it boys! Push it off!” the captain called as one mighty siege tower slowly began to slip away from Dahlquin. Tiomu's men scrambled to evacuate the smoldering tower as it broke in two. Below was chaos; men ran like ants from a smoke-infested hill. A mighty cheer went up from Dahlquin. The ramparts rang with their victory. Just as quickly, the defenders now exerted every effort on the siege tower that had breached them.

  As Tiomu’s siege towers assaulted Dahlquin Castle, his mangonel rained down upon the defenders, pummeling the walls and interior opposite the towers, the blows causing a tremor Eloise could feel through her boots, amplifying the crashing sound. Armed with crossbows, Eloise, her mother and their attendants picked off the enemy below with slow, deliberate accuracy. Bolts were still at a premium, and this wasn’t over. Eloise took comfort on the occasions when her Lord Father’s commands could be discerned above the pandemonium. Tears streaked her blackened cheeks. Eyes and nose burnt; her ears pounded with the incessant tumult. Her own trusty recurve bow was strung forsakenly over her shoulder, because at this distance it lacked the armour-penetrating power of the executioner’s crossbow. Foot in the stirrup, her shoulders cramped as she reloaded the crossbow and fired: one less traitor below.

  Beast was barking. Movement caught her attention. Her mother whirled and Eloise turned to look. Her father was confronted by two assailants, a streak of blood between his eyes from brow to jaw, an ax blade arcing to sever her father from this life. Aiming, Eloise worried a bolt at such close range would impale the attacker and her father.

  A bolt hit under one of the attacker’s arms, penetrating the chain mail, the fletch brushing her father’s cheek with the proximity.

  “Aine!” Hubert yelled. His blue eyes blazed, highlighted by the scarlet swath across his face as he tried to push the dying man from himself.

  “Lacking faith in Cupid, husband?” her mother shouted back as she bent, reloading her crossbow.

  “Cupid?” he sputtered, thrusting his dagger up under the other attacker’s helm as their sword hands locked together.

  “To guide my arrow to the heart of your enemy!” Aine offered, shooting the assailant. Her father cut the wounded man's throat before shoving him away. Fucking Hell, he seemed to say, his expression softening. Husband and wife exchanged a glance Eloise couldn’t read.

  “To your posts!” barked Hubert at her and her mother, amidst the shouts and fighting.

  “Not a word,” Aine warned Eloise, reloading her crossbow.

  Eloise shot an attacker jumping from the rampart and he fell at her father’s feet.

  Eloise loaded and shot, loaded and shot, tingling as she reconsidered her mother. She was not only a capable defender, but a confident one.

  Eloise flinched at a piercing whistle, glancing up as the next missile hurtled over the ramparts. “Curse you!” she gasped as it blasted into one of the two long castle stables, where the finest palfreys and coursers and gear were kept. Crossbow left behind, Eloise and Beast ran towards the screaming as horses fled from the stone and wood shards, a grey cloud hiding the damage as frightened horses sought escape.

  “Garth!” she called, pushing her way past the tottering stable as another missile hurtled into the damaged structure. Horses whinnied and blew, hooves skittering and pounding to be free of the projectiles and pain and fear. Chickens tried to fly. Eloise tripped on a cat. A loose red gelding bolted past her, a bloody ear hanging. A liver bay gelding joined him forming a frightened herd of two: Cabba and Sorgha. The animal cacophony and thunder of impact were drowned by the pounding of Eloise's heart as she fought ahead, barely able to see, choking on the dust.

  Garth. The dapple-grey stallion's nostrils flared as he circled in the debris-strewn paddock. She stood immobile, relief, disbelief, absorbing the reality; her Garth, sound, unhurt. But the others, for she knew every horse by name, age, breeding and temperament…family.

  Scampering back over the felled stones and timber, Eloise pulled her surcoat up to cover her nose and mouth from the cloud of destruction in the stable, distorted light coming in through the gouges in the roof. Splintered timbers, sharp as daggers, hung precariously above stalls as frightened and injured horses fought to escape their crumbling prison.

  Beast lunged at a fleeing rat. A pigeon laid at her feet, flapping a useless wing, the rest of its body immobile. Idiotically, Eloise reached down, pinched the primary feathers together and lifted the dying bird from a pool of blood left in the dirt. “Damn waste of time,” her father's voice chided in her mind, as she placed the pigeon out of the passageway, crossing herself then grabbing a halter.

  Although Eloise had spent many happy hours in the stables with only horses as her companions, at this moment she was desolate with emptiness, knowing every able-bodied person was risking their life repelling Tiomu's siege engines. She had to save the horses.

  She struggled to lead the first injured horse out of the rattling stable as Beast barked at the flitting mare. Eloise didn't hear the missile until it hit the corner of the barn with a jolt, bringing more cracking timber and crushed stone raining down on them. The mare lunged past her as Eloise tugged sharply at the lead rope, running behind the exiting mare. Once in the paddock Eloise fought to get the halter off but the mare proved too difficult, wanting to join Garth cantering around the paddock. Eloise let her go.

  “Beast!” she yelled as the hound nearly upended her trying to hide underfoot from the last assault.

  Mayhap it would be best to let horses be horses and use their herd instinct to guide them to safety. With a clear path to the paddock she could open the barn door. But there wasn't a strong enough barrier to keep them from bolting the wrong way, stampeding into the bailey or kitchens or aviaries. But with Garth to lead them, of course, she and Garth could open the door and bring the horses behind. Reaching for Garth's headstall she hesitated; grabbing the soft leather and curb bit, she needed firm communication. She ran to the paddock.

  Blocking all the shouts, cries and incessant pounding of battle, Eloise kept Garth and the mare moving away from her, circling the paddock. She studied Garth for injury, letting him settle, drawing him into her. She was the leader; he could trust her. Garth's near ear turned to her. His head dropped as his amble slowed further. Her attention was focused on Garth, as his must be on her. Great Spirit upon you, she thought, look to me, come to me.

  Her five-year old stallion tightened his circles around her, dodging the rocks and splintered boards. “I smell like blood and bone and flesh,” she cooed, “but I’m not a wolf,” she said shaking her head. “You know me. Friends.” She let him do another lap around her. “Garth,” she called gently. “Easy, easy,” she said with firm conviction.

  “Ho,” she said, and Garth stopped, turning to face her, coming to her when she summoned. Eloise stroked his neck, feeling him tremble. “Good boy,” she cooed, stroking his face, then massaging at the poll as he dropped his head. The mare halted, watching, seeking security.

  Again, the whistle as another projectile smashed into the castle wall with the boom and crash of the stones. Garth turned his head to her, as if hiding from view or seeking protection. Beast cowered under the stallion.

  Another missile blasted into the wall. The mare bolted. Eloise tried not to think about the gaping hole in the paddock fence.

  “Garth,” she said, massaging his poll, burying her own face in his neck. Calm, easy breathing, woman and horse, together against the chaos as a thick cloud of sharp pebbles and dust rained on them. Taking a deep breath, she stood tall, shoulders back, indicating a change. Slowly she lifted the bit to his mouth, touching his lips. He took the metal and she slipped the leather headstall up his face, carefully placing it over his ears. “Thank God,” she whispered, picturing the horse with the damaged ear, feeling the tears forming, brusquely pushing them away with the back of her hand. She grabbed his mane and jumped, swinging her right leg over his back, readjusting the bow on her back and quiver on her hip.

  Again, the wa
ll shook with impact, more stonework giving way as she and Garth exited the paddock for the tottering stable.

  “Maiden, saints be praised!” the stable master howled, exiting the stable with two of the horses in tow.

  Before Eloise could acknowledge or thank him, a flaming ball hurtled over the wall, a shooting star of doom as it careened into the battered stable. Timber cracked, stone rattled. Whoosh. All noise was absorbed as the stable burst into flames, straw, splintered timber and hay igniting.

  Garth spooked, his front legs splayed.

  “Ho!” Eloise called, throwing herself back as Garth rocked on his haunches and pivoted. “Ho!” she yelled again as several horses ran through the broken stable wall into the paddock.

  “Easy,” she said, both hands on the reins as horses jostled by, the acrid smell of burnt hair and worse, flesh. The paddock fencing caught fire.

  The wall behind them exploded, showering stone fragments on them. Tiomu's mangonel was being reloaded with unbelievable speed, beating a hole through the wall. Horses screamed, spun, reared, some running as if blind into the falling rocks. Two tried to return to the security of the stable, ignorant the flames of Hell awaited. “Ho!” she screamed futilely as the horses vanished into the inferno. Gulping for air and bracing for the cries of agony she anticipated, Garth continued to spin, unable to find an escape.

  Another explosion drowned all animal sound as the castle wall behind her started collapsing. The horses surged away from the avalanche only to be repelled by a wall of flame as the stable fell towards them. Garth reared, extending straight up, as if seeing an escape route into the sky.

  “Eloise!”

  “Da!” she shouted back. But she couldn't see her father, or anyone through the flames and belching smoke, ash and dust. Her tears were unable to flush away the contaminated air.

  Garth trembled and rocked. Eloise planted her butt into his taut back, as if her weight might root them to the firmament. He sprang into the air as if scalded, and when they landed, she understood. The ground was shaking. The wall had been hit again, stone collapsing inside and out, tumbling into the moat and onto the besiegers. Through the grey cloud of destruction crawled Tiomu's men, armed moles, with lances, maces, swords and falchions, clawing through her fortress, to infect the very heart of Dahlquin.

  “Da!” she screamed again. He needed to know. The siege towers were toppled, but Tiomu's men had forced entrance, behind the flames.

  Another projectile blasted the wall; the breach was larger. Eloise urged Garth forward, believing there was passage through the blaze, praying the loose horses would follow to safety. She could make out a small fire line, buckets full of water dousing the lapping flames. A brief vision of her father, Uncle Reggie, then a wall of smoke, and she trusted Garth to find his way to them, to safety in their guard.

  Burning and weakened the stable collapsed, creating a satanic bellows, roaring with the intensity of an angry deity, creating a barrier of flames. Garth and the remaining horses bolted, colliding in blind panic. Singed flesh and hair assaulted the nose and burned the eyes. Garth reared again, the flames forcing him against the obliterated wall. From this height Eloise thought she saw a way out. Straight down was death among the strewn stones, but at an angle, down the steep - vertical - bank, through the moat. To uncertainty. Without a way back into the castle, her home, her people. Tiomu's army before them, separating her from the whole of Ireland.

  That or incineration.

  “Back, back, back,” she commanded Garth, heels tapping. Garth was ready to explode, feeling like a mighty bow, drawn to full, held too long. “Over!” she called, premature, rushing the departure in her own panic of searing flesh and betrayal to her horses for not protecting them. “Over,” she said again, legs cueing, upper body leaning, anticipating, encouraging.

  Garth lifted. Horses are unable to see clearly what is directly in front of them without turning their head to view with one eye then the other. Garth didn't want to burn, and horses never want their feet in jeopardy, flight is their survival. Garth believed he had to leap, to clear something, and he trusted his leader to guide them to safety. Feeling his leader's urgency, prompted by his own, Garth launched through the breach in the wall, sailing over the broken stones, over the invaders who ducked or fell away from him. There would be ground, he would find purchase, escaping the noise and confusion and heat and fear.

  Herd instinct prevailed and the remaining horses turned, following Garth into the unknown, without vision or guidance. Those landing on the rock pile would break or damage legs, those who landed on the slope, as Garth, would have a chance.

  Eloise couldn't look back, every fiber focused on balance and staying with Garth, trusting him as he had trusted her. The vertical bank was soft, offering the slightest traction, and Garth lunged down the embankment, no possibility of stopping, only to keep up with the downward momentum, finally leaning back on his hind end, sliding on his rear.

  Wishing like never before she was in a saddle with stirrups and support, her pubis bounced painfully against Garth's withers as she leaned further back, squeezing with her legs, unfolding disaster playing out in slow motion, knowing at any moment she might slide forward over his neck, falling ahead of Garth, to be trampled. This slowing down of time gave her clarity to adjust her seat, cling with the desperation of accomplishing the impossible, while uttering a wordless prayer.

  “Saddle up!” Hubert shouted, holding the headstall of Reginald's bay stallion as the stable master tightened the girth.

  “Faster,” Hubert shouted, his daughter trapped between a wall of flames and a collapsing wall. Reginald stood at Hubert's side, instructing the squire tying the shield on his handless left arm. Reggie was sallow colored as death, hazel eyes clear with resolve, his personal battle with mortal pain searing across his features like a solar flare, to be wrestled away, subdued by a grimace, as if an evil presence or foul odor had infiltrated a private interlude.

  “You too!” Hubert barked at Roland, as stable boys ran to fetch Roland's black destrier and saddle. “Get her out of there.”

  Roland nodded, thinking it was suicide. Hubert dumped a bucket of water on himself, as if ready to run into the flames himself.

  “Hubert!” Reginald shouted, shaking his head. “Not you.”

  Roland covered his head as rocks and shards fell from the last blast. In the next instant he helped one-handed Reginald mount up, wondering where the man found the resource to continue. The knight appeared as a corpse in every manner save silence and lack of voluntary motion, a resurrected minion serving Dahlquin beyond the grave.

  “Eloise!” Hubert shouted again, over the din, searching for her as Roland did, through the blanketing dust and smoke, the swirling cloud of stampeding horses, as if she and the herd were trapped in some level of purgatory, Hell fire lapping at them, taunting them, and barring them from returning to this brutal level of martial challenge, despite the efforts of the fire line to throw bucket upon bucket of water onto the billowing inferno.

  Roland blinked. Movement, men. Climbing, nay oozing through the breached wall.

  “Tiomu's men!” he yelled.

  Crack, then a creaking boom, and the stable collapsed with a hail of splinters and rocky shards pelleting everything. Whoosh. Air, sound and even thought were sucked into the shattered depths of the stable, then a wall of flame blasted from the structure, scorchingly bright and forge hot.

  Hubert cried out, defiant in Satan’s own wrath. He took hold of the reins of Reginald's skittering stallion. Roland, Hubert, and Reginald searched the blaze, seeking a glimpse of Eloise though no mortal's vision could penetrate the flames or choking smoke.

  “Fuck-,” Roland muttered, hearing it twice, looking down.

  “-ing Hell,” the stable boy continued, staring at the unholy visage before them.

  “Did you see Tiomu's men?” Roland asked, wanting confirmation.

  “I saw them,” the boy said, his hand moving to his stomach.

  As q
uickly as it erupted, fuel and air spent, the towering wall of fire withdrew, like a flamboyant red fox retreating into its dark hole, leaving the steady, relentless fire to consume everything in slow, well-chewed portions.

  The paddock was empty. Not a single horse or trace of Eloise.

  “Where are they?” one of the stable boys asked. The other boy crossed himself. Beast jumped up on the stones, barking, wavering, searching for a way down, snapping at the approaching men. Then he went over the side.

  “Go, go!” Hubert shouted, swatting Reginald's great horse on the rump as knight and mount lunged forward.

  Reginald and his bay destrier galloped past the burned fence, jouncing through the stone-strewn paddock with increasing speed as the first invaders’ heads appeared over the battered ledge. Reginald, sword drawn, shield at the ready, jumped through the breach and disappeared into the smoky unknown as his beloved charge must have done moments before.

  “What are you staring at?” Hubert shouted, striding toward Roland, piercing blue eyes drawing closer, withdrawing his sword. “Bring her back!”

  As Roland swung into the saddle, Hubert turned, charging into battle against the invading soldiers, his stable hands armed with pitchforks and fiery brands, his knights appearing from everywhere.

  Shield in place, Roland and Artoch entered the stone-strewn battlefield, picking their way between debris and men-at-arms below them. No advantage to mounted combat in this pit, he thought. Unlike Reginald before him, Roland wouldn’t blindly jump to his doom, in pursuit of a girl who may already be dead by any number of ways: broken neck, crushed skull, punctured lungs, trampled, drowned, impaled - with Reginald to fall upon her crumpled body.

  “Bring her back!” was the last thing Roland heard as he too made the leap of faith into oblivion, in pursuit of the girl with blue-grey eyes.

  Eloise could barely fathom what was happening. She and Garth escaped a heinous death by fire, only to be careening down a cliff face, like a childhood nightmare of falling, but she wasn't sleeping, it was she and Garth, one mind, one body, unity in motion or...before she could complete the worrisome thought, they plunged into the moat, mud, muck and filth spraying back at them and again she was clinging, praying, wordless.