Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Free fall forgotten, Garth lunged and dipped, not committed to swimming, seeking a foothold. Eloise slipped and slid, struggling to keep her boots out of the infested moat, the polluted water giving off a putrid, new scent to her siege-beleaguered olfactory senses. Several other horses tumbled or leaped into the water, men and beasts lunging for safety.

  The far bank was a swampy, fetid bog, sucking Garth down to his chest as he used all his strength to pull himself forward. Each soggy step risked a crippling injury for Garth. Eloise considered her options as Tiomu's men advanced. She checked her quiver: plenty of arrows. But could she direct Garth out of this mire while shooting?

  She slid the bow from her shoulder, reaching for arrows, as she sighted on an approaching soldier. Nock, draw, release. Arrow, nock, draw, willing Garth to lift his mud-leaden hooves as if taking on the weight herself, with no thought to any of it. Instinct. Release. The mail-clad soldiers flinched and slowed.

  The soldiers faced the same conditions. Unable to approach, they waited on solid ground.

  Around her men cursed and grumbled as the horses churned in the muck before breaking through to solid ground. An eager soldier reached for the reins as Garth slogged out. Eloise shot his face.

  “Come on, blighter,” another grunted, tugging on the reins as Garth yanked his head back in protest. “Using girls and horses for defense?” he said, looking at Eloise.

  The soldier held fast, pulling Garth's head around, forcing Garth to turn sharply. Eloise was unable to take aim on him, shielded behind Garth's neck and head as he was. Too late she thought to draw her dagger, and the soldier grabbed her right wrist, wrenching her down. Some of her arrows clattered to the ground.

  More soldiers approached, then dropped to the ground.

  The soldier holding her wrist looked first at the men on the ground, then at the castle.

  “Crossbows,” he muttered.

  In that moment, Eloise grabbed one of her spilled arrows and jabbed him above his gauntlet.

  “Fucking bitch,” he moaned, blood seeping through the padded sleeve, tossing her to the ground.

  Eloise tried to land in a defensive crouch, arrow ready.

  “Hold!”

  She froze, recognising the soul-searing roar of Uncle Reggie.

  Eloise twisted to see Reggie, eyes wild, his horse chest deep in the mire as she and Garth had been…and too far away to help. She turned back to her attacker just in time to see a boot coming to her face. She closed her eyes, gut clenched, thinking pain, feeling wind, hearing a growl. Then grunting, rattling, howling curses. Garth blowing. Looking up, Eloise's heart raced as she saw a slick ooze-covered beastie, her own Beast, latched on her attacker's arm, snarling, pulling on the appendage.

  “Ho!” she called to Garth as her stallion backed away. His reins were stuck on the attacker's gauntlet, and Garth was pulling the brawling man and dog towards him. Try as Garth might, he couldn’t escape the flailing man and hound.

  “Go, go!” Reggie commanded her, moving to the bank of the moat, eyes blazing to match his steed's.

  Spilled arrows within easy reach, Eloise snatched them up and then stood, returning them to her quiver. Peripherally, she saw a crippled horse, heard shouting. She turned to see two soldiers attacking Beast.

  “Ho!” Eloise screamed running at Garth. His reins were loose and she gripped them and a handful of mane, trying to spring up from the ground onto his back. Frightened, Garth skittered sideways as Eloise tried again to climb on the tall horse's back, her panicked movement frightening him more. “Garth,” she reprimanded.

  Nostrils flared, eyes popping from their sockets, Garth tried to move away from her and the battle.

  “Stand still! Ho!”

  His massive head bobbed, his moat-filthy tail slashed. The horse was asking for help, drawing Eloise to him.

  “Good boy,” she tried to coo. Think, she commanded herself. Running along with Garth, she vaulted and pulled herself up on Garth's back.

  “Beast!” she shouted. “Beast, come!” she called, galloping away.

  “Ride, damn you!” yelled Uncle Reggie behind her.

  Roland slid down the steep bank. The high pommel and cantle of his saddle, so effective in keeping him firmly centered for battle, forced his body forward and interfered with Artoch's ability to negotiate the descent. Too much weight forward, Artoch pitched headfirst into the moat, humping up his back with the impact of spurs until Roland was able to right himself.

  Before them Reginald was bent low, his bay destrier gaining speed, in pursuit of Eloise.

  “This is not possible,” Roland muttered to himself as Artoch lumbered out of the fetid moat to follow the riders in front of him.

  Tiomu's men ignored the last rider and instead scaled the wall to enter Dahlquin castle, the first jewel in Tiomoid U’Neill's crown.

  From her sheltered position on the crenellated rampart Aine watched, sighting down the shaft of her loaded crossbow as her only child, beloved brother-in-law, and new neighbor rode out of sight and beyond her reach.

  Looking over her shoulder, Eloise checked that Reggie was still behind her. Anyone else, she wondered? Were they pursued? Where should she go? What next? Sitting up, she cued Garth to slow, checking behind her again. Reggie was falling back, and she slowed to an amble. Another rider, her heart pounded, God, with your will, she pleaded. She looked again. Reggie was also looking back. Her uncle sat up, slowing his horse, but not attacking.

  “Walk,” she said to Garth, letting her breath out. Her stallion made a rough transition, his barrel heaving for breath as he walked out. His back and her seat were drenched in sweat. They both snorted and she stroked his wet neck.

  Hearing the riders approach, she looked back again to see Reggie and, most unexpectedly, Lord Roland of Ashbury-at-March, side by side. She waited, anxious for the company.

  “Why the Hell did you slow?” Reginald growled at her, before any salutations could be exchanged. “It's your job to ride, not wait for a dead man.”

  “To be with you,” she snapped. “And ride where?”

  “Ashbury. Unless it, too, is under siege as Roland suspects. If there isn’t help in Ashbury, then Leinster,” Reggie said.

  “Leinster?” she questioned; her voice shrill. Is this your idea?” she asked, turning to Roland. Before he could respond, she was back at Reginald.

  “You were at counsel,” Reginald continued. “If Connacht is under siege, FitzGilbert must be warned. Whether he sends arms or not, he must know.”

  “What of Meath?” Roland asked. Eloise and Reginald turned on him, looks of incredulity on both their battle stained faces.

  The summer sun was sinking toward the horizon, and the evening light was dimming.

  “Lord Bryan is as dangerous to Eloise as Tiomoid U’Neill,” Reginald scolded, pointing a gnarled finger at Eloise. “Never forget that.”

  “Bryan FitzGilbert supports Gerald FitzGilbert. He is loyal to Leinster,” Roland said. “He won’t side with Tiomu.”

  “He will not,” Reginald croaked, staring at Roland, looking ever more like a gargoyle. “But marriage to Eloise would give him Dahlquin. That,” Reginald said, closing his eyes tightly as if walking into bright sun, “must never happen. Bryan has reason to take his revenge on Dahlquin, in ways hurtful and damaging.”

  “We won't go to New Pembrokeshire, Uncle,” Eloise murmured. “I remember.”

  “There isn’t a safer place for you than Leinster, as ward to Lord FitzGilbert. Until you can return to Dahlquin,” her uncle growled.

  “I’ll return with you,” she countered in a shrill tone. “Don’t leave me in Ashbury or Leinster.”

  “You need a disguise,” Reginald said. “We’ll look-”

  “I’m not staying in Leinster. Cowering like a beaten cur, when my family, my home-” she looked over her shoulder in the direction of Dahlquin Castle, “I will not.”

  Reginald studied Roland a moment. “Extra clothing?” he questioned. “Me neither,” he s
aid, shaking his own head. “Ellie,” he looked at the pouch at her waist, his face twitching, more sallow. “I don’t suppose you have-?”

  Eloise gazed at her uncle’s pain worn face then shook her head. “Shame upon me, Uncle.”

  Roland's mind spun with the increasing burden of implications as the three unlikely riders walked their horses amid the sunset. Maid Eloise, a notorious heretic, alleged succubus and sole heir of Dahlquin. Seventeen, nearly alone, and in greater peril than she could comprehend. Preposterous.

  “Flies,” Eloise said, noting the buzz.

  “Death,” Reginald said. How odd the word sounded when spoken by someone who seemed immune, Roland thought, swatting at the swarming flies.

  The grasses were flattened and torn. The ground was churned by hoof prints and paw prints. Vultures lurched to the sky from a horse carcass. Some brown hide, bolts, scraps of wool and linen, a well-chewed and discarded leather girdle, the dagger and eating knife still in their scabbards. A saddle, scratched and covered with dirt, saddle bags still attached.

  “Tuath,” Roland said, crossing himself. “Guillaume's squire.” He dismounted, retrieving the girdle and weapons. He searched the ground for any tools or clues to the lad's demise and the other squire. The shadows got longer and darker as the sun continued to set.

  “It was quite a battle if they killed a horse,” Reginald said.

  “Hoof prints through the woods,” Eloise said, following them. “Maybe the other squire got away.”

  “There's not a bone left,” Roland muttered, “not even a skull or pelvis.”

  “Oh, sorrow upon me. Lord, here's more!” Eloise called.

  Wolves or bear made quick work of the human bones. Only gear and scraps of clothing remained. And the dead horse.

  “I think they took the other horse. I can’t find any tack, but more tracks. Sorrow upon me.” She was crossing herself, and Roland followed her lead. Both squires killed.

  “Let’s search,” Reginald reminded her, dismounting to help Roland search for anything of use.

  Roland lifted Tuath's cap, a silly, grey woolen thing with dangling tassels at both ears and down the back. His sister made it for him and Tuath cherished it, despite all the teasing he received.

  “That'll do,” Reginald said, snatching the cap from Roland's hand. “Ellie, get over here,” he ordered. “God's own blood,” Reginald scoffed, examining the dead squire's cap. “Ah, the beasties have taken most everything away. But a hat and a saddle, that's something. Take the reins,” Reginald said to Roland, handing him his bay stallion's reins, “and tie him off”. Garth and Artoch grazed uneasily at liberty, not choosing to leave the security of their herd of three, but clearly agitated by the horse carcass. “Tired stallions make little trouble,” Reginald observed.

  Roland nodded, but he wasn't sure he agreed.

  “Let's hide the hair,” Reginald said to Eloise.

  “I'll try the saddle on your horse,” Roland said, “and the saddle bags. Hobbles,” he muttered, searching the contents of the saddle bags, also finding two blankets and a mending kit with needle, awl and thread, and a skin bag. Any extra linen, wool or coins Tuath might have held for Guillaume were gone.

  “His name's Garth. I'll do it,” Eloise said.

  “Let him!” Reginald barked at her. “And keep your eyes open for Tiomu's men.”

  “I saddle my own horse-”

  “Get your hair up, I'll cut this,” Reggie interrupted. But with only one hand, he could not.

  “Roland!”

  Using his dagger, Roland cut off the extra length of Eloise's surcoat of muted blue and grey, so it hung at the knees, as a youth's garment did. Next the linen chemise.

  “Cut it into strips,” Reginald said. “Quick, quick, we've killers at our heels.”

  Roland complied while Reginald continued with his instructions. “Ellie, you ride as Lord Roland's page like you did for your father, you know what must be done? Thinner,” he told Roland.

  “I know, sir,” she answered.

  “You ride when he says, stop when he says, and eat if he says.”

  “May you have goodness, Lord,” she said taking the first of the thin strips and using it to tie one of the newly plaited strands of hair tightly to her scalp.

  “Speak when spoken to. Back talk is forbidden,” Reginald continued. Then to Roland, “You are to deliver Eloise to Lord Albert, failing that, High Lord FitzGilbert. No one else. If you touch or harm her in any way,” he growled, starting to shake. “Do you understand?”

  “I have questions,” Roland answered, bristling under the accusation. Did he see a tremor in Reginald's hand? Was this sorcery growing weak?

  “Hold the questions,” Reginald said to Roland, while handing Eloise a long swath of the chemise. “Bind up, you can’t go jiggling down the tracks. Hurry up!”

  Roland thought she was blushing as she turned her back, but it was hard to tell under all the dirt and ash. She was slipping her arms out of her sleeves.

  “Turn your eyes, Ashbury,” Reginald barked, stepping in front of Roland.

  Roland did, but felt Reginald glowering at him. Then Reginald grabbed him round the neck. Roland turned. Reginald changed his grip and pulled him close, almost nose to nose. Reginald's hazel eyes glowed with a zealot's unleashed passion.

  “You let any harm come to her,” Reginald croaked, spittle collecting at the corners of his lined and bleeding mouth, “I’ll haunt you from the gates of Hell.” Roland felt an icy breeze pass over him, leaves rustled, and the grazing horses lifted their heads. He shivered involuntarily, and Reginald looked a little more satisfied. Then nodding towards Roland, he released his grip.

  “It should be me,” Reginald said, as much to himself as to Roland. “I’ve always been there for Ellie. All of them.” Reginald’s gaze moved from Eloise towards Dahlquin Castle, and with a sideways sneer back at Roland.

  Eloise stood transformed before them. She was mayhap the worst dressed, most disheveled page Roland had ever seen. If one didn't look too closely, especially at her soft, oval face and bare neck with hair obviously missing or hidden, she might pass as a youth of twelve or so.

  “All grown up,” Reginald said softly, “but not taller than a sprout.”

  “Uncle Reggie,” she started, her voice tapering off. “I must check the saddle.”

  Roland watched her check and shorten the stirrups. He hadn't thought of that.

  “Take my shield,” Reginald instructed Eloise, “for luck.”

  It was a large, long, and well-beaten, shield, with a distinctive design, bearing an old-style metal boss, with a patchwork of hide, resembling a protective turtle shell. The blue and gold colors had faded or been battered off.

  Eloise was in tears when Reginald hugged her. His appearance gave Roland the shivers, but Eloise wrapped her arms around him in a tight hold. Surely it was a different man she embraced, Roland thought.

  “Don’t, Ellie. Not the tears, just kiss this old war horse goodbye,” he said jovially, taking on a more festive attitude as she let him go. “We ride out together. My last stand, your escape. Dahlquin. Family, God, Crown.”

  Bearing witness to this intimate exchange stirred something in Roland, but he couldn't place it or name it. Restless. Movement.

  “Riders,” Roland said. “Tiomu's men. Must be at that speed.”

  All three studied the approaching group. Eloise checked the girth on Reginald's horse.

  “Put that shield on,” Reggie commanded.

  “I can’t shoot like this,” Eloise said as she slipped the enormous shield over her back. A great land turtle.

  “Just ride.”

  Then Reginald gave her a boost into the unfamiliar saddle.

  Roland was amazed when Reginald swung up into his saddle unassisted. Then Reginald slumped, clutching his handless arm.

  Eloise cued Garth and her mighty steed lunged forward.

  “Go!” Reggie shouted as she and Roland galloped off. “Stay left. Right is a dead end.
”

  Fwooit. Fwooit. Arrows in flight. Thunk. An arrow hit Uncle Reggie's shield.

  “Ride!” Reginald roared behind her. “Go, go!”

  Fwooit. Shoot or ride, she wondered, her mind briefly visualizing Parthian shoots. Glancing back, she saw Uncle Reggie tall in the saddle, barrel chest thrust forward, arms outstretched. A human shield. His head bobbed. She saw him flinch to the side before righting. Jerking.

  “Don’t look back!” Roland shouted, riding up next to her, his shield extended toward her.

  Thunk. Grunt. Eloise rode hard, but her mind continued to play out Uncle Reggie's demise behind her. Slumping forward, trying to sit, slumping, his back full of arrows. Tiomu U’Neill's treachery.

  “Ho there! Halt!” Tiomu U’Neill's men shouted. Fwooit.

  This had to end. Eloise pointed right and headed Garth in that direction at a full gallop.

  “Don’t go right!” Roland yelled.

  Eloise went right. Roland followed. They tore through low branches, following a creek. Eloise slowed, waiting for Roland to come up alongside.

  “This is the wrong way!” he shouted.

  “Will your horse jump?” she queried, ignoring his comment.

  “He can jump,” answered Roland. “How do you think I got here?”

  “Good, it’ll be easier in the near dark. He won’t know what’s happening” she replied.

  “Your Uncle said this was a dead end, didn’t he?” he asked as the horses carefully picked through the middle of the rocky creek.

  “We can make it,” she said, feeling each step as Garth tensely picked his way through the creek, reminding her he didn’t care for this either.

  “We’ve got ‘em now,” she heard the soldiers following them. “They’re trapped!”

  “Easy now,” she said. Roland and Eloise stood at the mouth of a waterfall. The creek ended within twelve inches of Artoch’s hooves.