Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  He raised his shield, anticipating arrows.

  “Fuck, nay room to fight,” Roland muttered, “it’s a dead end! Dead as in us.”

  “It’s all right, now just spur him and hang on,” she said.

  “What?” Roland asked, turning a hard look on Eloise. “Are you daft?”

  “Do it all the time, it’s only about three or four men’s height,” she scolded, “very deep and still. Go now, they’re almost here.” Her voice rang with desperation. “Do it yourself, or I will,” she said, preparing to smack Artoch on the rump.

  Roland turned Artoch to face the ledge. “This is asinine,” he muttered.

  Eloise looked back over his shoulder at their adversaries. Bows were raised. Sword blades reflected the rising moonlight in sharp silver and pewter hues against the solid grey and black tones behind them.

  “Together, so we don’t fall on each other,” she called over the noise. “Hang on tight to his mane,” she instructed. “Wrap your legs tightly. Now!”

  Roland spurred his mount like never before. The dark horse lunged off the ledge and into thin air, a terrible sensation as man and horse careened downward. Artoch’s hooves flailed before him, seeking a foothold. Roland’s shield caught the wind and was yanked off arm and shoulder.

  The shock of the cold water caused him to forget the fall. He sank. The weight of his chain mail, sword, boots and clothing pulled him into the chill dark. He grabbed something, thrust his hand then his arm through what he prayed was a stirrup. He gripped the stirrup, his life line, with both arms. Out of breath, Roland started to panic. Surely his arms would burst, his chest contracted. Artoch struggled to stay at the surface, sucking Roland under, where he would be pummeled to death and the horse would drown. Instead of fighting, Roland forced his mind to relax, to give in to the cold depths, so black and peaceful.

  Eloise and Garth headed for shore. They’d jumped off this waterfall a dozen times, but never with her bow, quivers and a shield. Uncle Reggie’s shield banged the back of her head, then floating and banging, pushing her face under water. The quiver floated and tugged at her waist. She coughed and her head was thrust under again. Saints preserve us, Eloise entreated.

  Nearly submerged, Roland's black horse beat the water with his front hooves as if trying to climb on the surface. Where was Lord Roland? She dare not shout, alerting the soldiers they had survived. Roland had to be here. He must. She got another mouthfull of water and coughed.

  Rounding Garth back, she stretched but couldn’t find his horse's reins. After several attempts she urged Garth to swim in closer. She reached the bridle. Following the metal, she located a rein strap and wrestled it free. Once over Artoch’s head, she and Garth lead him on the swim to shore. Eloise had not seen Roland, but he must be hanging on for something was pulling his mighty destrier underwater. God keep him safe, she prayed and coughed.

  Panic overcome; the disciplined warrior challenged every belligerent fiber of his charged being to find the strength to be calm. Scraping and gnashing, then a thud on the head roused Roland from his concentrated effort of restraint. Rocks and gravel beneath him. The horse dragged him well up the bank. He dropped to all fours gasping huge gulps of air. Choking and sputtering, breathing in the best air he had ever tasted, he rolled onto his back and rested his oxygen-starved body.

  Eloise checked Garth, the saddle and bags. She could spy Tiomu’s men, perched at the top of the waterfall, unwilling to follow their prey. She didn’t think they could see her, Roland or the horses through the trees. Roland crawled up the bank next to his horse and Eloise crossed herself.

  “May You have goodness, Blessed Mother, Jesus our Savior and God in Heaven,” she whispered. Garth grazed as she ran her hands down each of his legs, feeling for strain or injury. Finally, Tiomu’s men retreated. Seeking a way down or back to Dahlquin Castle, Eloise didn’t know.

  “If my father captures Tiomu alive,” she hissed, venom permeating each of her words, “I pray I’m allowed to peel the skin off his hairless balls, before filleting them and feeding them to the hogs.” Crossing herself again, Eloise approached Roland’s horse.

  “Easy, my friend,” she said to the heaving destrier, running her hands along the horse’s legs as she had done with Garth. “Good boy!” she cooed. “You’re a fine, solid beast. What's your name?”

  Assured the destrier was uninjured, and after both horses had a brief rest, it was time to leave.

  “Well, you lost your shield and helm but otherwise we’re fine. Shall we saddle up?” she said to Roland, swinging into her saddle as she asked.

  If Roland hadn’t been so glad to be alive, he might have been livid, jumping off a waterfall. ‘Will your horse jump?’ Absurd!

  “Are you coming?” she called over her shoulder, her grey horse vanishing into the night as she rode away.

  Water poured out of his clothing and rippled through his chain mail as he swung back into the saddle. Artoch skittered nervously as more water sloshed on him. The destrier hesitated a moment before trusting his rider to keep them upon solid ground. Roland urged him on in pursuit of Eloise.

  Moonlight guided Eloise and Garth as they cantered a track skirting an apple orchard, the trees in full summer leaf, shimmering grey and coal in the night. Then a narrow field, with hills lifting, foresting as they grew in elevation. Here she urged Garth to move out, confident in his surefootedness, the passing night air chilling her until she shivered. It’s just a little cold, she challenged herself, nothing more. People are dying.

  Roland planted his seat firmly, upper body balanced and loose, doing nothing to hinder Artoch as he galloped after the grey stallion, then almost collided with Garth.

  Garth spooked, lunged then spun, snorting. Eloise listed, the awkward weight of the unfamiliar shield further unsettling her. “Ho!” she called to Garth as he pivoted to a sudden stop. Head up, nostrils pumping, he bobbed his head once asking Eloise to loosen the reins. Eloise felt his body expand, ready to pop. Head turning left, right, snorting.

  Artoch veered immediately, misstepping, as Roland pitched dangerously. “Bleeding saints,” he muttered, repositioning, clutching the reins. “What the-”

  Both horses stood but feet apart, distant trees casting long, eerie shadows in the moonlight.

  “Wolves,” said Eloise, her voice as deep and eerie as the shadows.

  “Are you sure? I hear nothing,” Roland asked, searching the colorless landscape.

  “The horses told me,” she answered, searching just as intently.

  “Wolves?” he questioned again.

  “Do you have an ax?” Eloise asked, not remembering. Garth shifted, pivoting his hind end. She shortened the reins, massaging them with her fingers. Listen to me, don’t act on your own.

  “Do not,” he replied.

  Expecting to hear things, she did. Roland drew his sword, and she knew he heard it too. Whether wind or wolf, something was moving, circling. Twigs snapped. Heavy breathing. Wait, that was the horses, she realized.

  “Ho,” Roland murmured. “Ho, now.”

  This would never happen if they had hounds with them, Eloise thought. She seldom, if ever, traveled without hounds clearing the way. Wildlife fled before dogs.

  “We can’t outrun them,” she said, thinking out loud. “If we climb-” she scanned the hills. “We missed the trail head,” she said looking, checking. It was harder to tell in the luminous twilight. Sheer, rocky and trees. She shivered violently with fear. Garth tugged at the tight reins, pounding the ground to move.

  Roland held his breath. Movement. He saw a wolf. Fuck. Breathe out. He gauged the comfortable feel of the sword in his hand. Loose arm, wrist; poised. Deep, easy breath.

  “This way!” Eloise called, chattering. “It’s steep, but we should be able to pick our way through the game paths until we hit the main trail.”

  “Will not,” Roland answered, his voice sounding as if he were about to choke the life out of something. “I followed you over cliffs twice today. Not a
gain.”

  “We can make it. They can’t take us down in the trees.” She was fairly sure.

  “They will pick us out of the trees easy as squirrels,” Roland said.

  Movement again. He licked his lips.

  Growling, snarling. The horses bunched together then tried to dart. Roland and Eloise held fast, directing their frightened mounts to face the wolves, trying to keep them rump to rump, against their natures for horses are flight animals, depending on speed and safety within the herd, not a standoff.

  “We should-” Eloise tried again, like her mount, preferring to evade than confront.

  “Not!” Roland barked.

  Resigned, Eloise said, “I need my bow.”

  “Give me the shield,” he said. Carefully, and not an easy feat, she passed the enormous shield to Roland. Instead of using it as she thought he would, Roland tossed it at a shadowy figure, darting towards them. Eloise drew an arrow.

  Soundlessly the wolves were at the horses’ legs. Roland bent and swung the sword, missing. Garth reared as wolves lunged at his muzzle and neck. Artoch spun and tried to kick, but Roland kept him bent and moving, then side passing as a wolf tried for the horse’s throat. Roland thrust his sword into the wolf.

  “Ahh!” Eloise shrieked, a sharp stab slicing through her shoulder.

  A piercing yelp and the wolf fell screaming and thrashing in the grass and leaves. Roland leaned and swerved, blocking and dodging as the snarling beasts returned again and again.

  Feeling her mouth full of blood Eloise tried to spit, but her mouth was dry. Pain receding, Eloise struggled to keep her seat as Garth fought to run, to escape the fangs. Pivoting, she drew her bow, but the wolves were too fast, Garth swinging or rearing. She dare not let fly in motion, she might shoot Roland or Artoch. In desperation she committed herself to charging the wolves.

  “Get him, get him!” she commanded, wheeling Garth toward a crouching wolf. Ears pinned, Garth lunged forward. The wolf snarled, but when the horse showed teeth, it sprang back. She heard another ghastly yelp that ripped through her spine; in a spasm of near paralysis, she almost dropped her bow. Tasting blood, she knew Roland had found success. What was happening to her? She almost fell on her head when Garth kicked. She clung to his neck, boots gripping offending areas. The horse bucked and spun as Eloise screamed “Ho!” and “Easy!” until she was back in the saddle. “Go,” she said, and they chased a retreating tail.

  She knew the wolves had fled, their death howls draining the life from her as if she, too, had been mortally wounded. Fear, pain and confusion vibrated within her, death of her loved ones. Garth sighed, bringing her back. She stroked his wet neck, relaxing her seat, watching Roland.

  “I think they’ve gone,” Roland said, circling her, sword at the ready. “Christ’s sweet blood, I’ve never in my life,” he continued, “big as fucking ponies.” He looked at Eloise, “Shame upon me.” Wiping his sword clean on his soaked leggings, he replaced it in the scabbard on his girdle. He dismounted to retrieve the shield. “And that screaming, like banshees,” he said, looking at her warily.

  Had he heard her too? She hoped she had imagined it.

  “Chill upon you like a frost,” he said. “We’ll build a fire and dry our clothes.”

  “Not here, by your will,” Eloise said. “Let’s ride,” and she did. Her teeth chattered and she shivered with cold, wet exhaustion.

  “We must stop, Maid--er-” he started, unsure how to address her.

  “El”, she answered. “Just call me El, it’ll pass and close enough to the real thing.”

  “Exhaustion must be upon you, let’s find a place to rest,” he said.

  “I would like to rest, Sir, we need dead fall for a fire,” she answered. “And woods to mask the blaze. And grazing for the horses.”

  Roland stared at her. “That would be good,” he acknowledged.

  After several more miles they found a spot wooded enough to have a fire, with the smoke broken up by the trees and grazing for the horses. Eloise set about collecting firewood with naught but summer moonlight to aid her.

  “Saints be praised!” Roland exclaimed when Eloise produced a small flint and iron oxide from her belt pouch.

  Even with spark, there is a trick to starting a fire when cold and soaked. But with some maneuvering they got it lit and shared a brief smile of satisfaction in the firelight. Then Eloise returned to the hobbled horses.

  Shivering, she unsaddled Garth and rubbed him down, carefully feeling for injury or wolf bite.

  “Goddess be praised, such nobility.” Eloise rested her head against his side, pressing her cold, stiff fingers on him, relishing the warmth of his body. Don’t cry she told herself. Don’t cry.

  “What's his name?” she asked, starting the same procedure on Roland's horse.

  “By your will, let me,” insisted Roland. He seemed embarrassed to have her attending his horse. “Artoch,” he added, grabbing the saddle. “He's a destrier, not a pet.”

  “He is exceptional,” Eloise said, stroking Artoch’s neck and shoulder. Artoch lifted his head from grazing, waiting. “Genial, brave. You’re fair with him,” she added.

  “He tell you that, did he?” Roland asked.

  “He did,” she said turning to Roland, ready to resume her chores. “Horses never lie.”

  They laid the tack out to dry, and as Eloise spread one of the blankets over a furze, she was gripped by the revelation that in order to dry her own clothes, she would have to disrobe. Despite the finger-numbing cold she felt embarrassment and shame nearly drown her. For miles they had sought this ideal location to dry and rest, yet she had neglected to even consider the prospect of undressing, alone, with none but this Lord Roland from Ashbury-at-March. She gently removed Cara from her shoulder and clutched the wet, abused bow to her chest. Cara, the bow that sang in her grip. Hanging Cara on a furze her shivering fingers went to the cold, wet buckle on her strap holding her quiver. The buckle wouldn’t loosen. Thank the Virgin she wore this rustic surcoat and simple chemise without all the tedious cords and laces requiring a nurse or attendant to unfasten, she reflected, her eyes unfocused on the ground before her. She fingered the swollen leather and buckle of her quiver.

  A shadow darkened what little of the ground she could see.

  “Would you help me?” Roland asked.

  He had already pulled off his tunic and laid it to dry.

  “Do you know how to remove a hauberk?” he asked, already bending over. “Just start easing it up my back,” he said, his arms outstretched towards her.

  Although Eloise had witnessed many knights having their armour and mail removed, and a laborious chore it was, she hadn’t been called upon to assist.

  “Satan’s horns, this is like dragging lead,” he said, his voice muffled in the wet clothing and mail, “caught upon my gambeson.” He tried to squirm backwards out of his tunnel of metal and linen, almost pulling the hauberk from her uncooperative fingers. “I know it’s heavy but try not to let it fall in the mud.”

  “I’ll try,” she sighed, coaxing the links off the padded shirt beneath.

  Suddenly it gave way and the hauberk slid off in a clattering ring. Eloise braced to capture the runaway armour. Roland pulled his arms free in time to grab the end, taking most of the weight.

  “May you have goodness,” he said, pushing his wet hair off his face before turning to lay his hauberk upon another stout furze. His rumpled gambeson was caught under his arms. She watched as he pulled it and the linen undershirt off and laid them closer to the fire. Next, he sat on part of a dead trunk removing his boots. He unfastened the points on his mail chausses and slid them off. Then his linen chausses which he laid near the fire. Standing, he spread the mail chausses near the hauberk, with his back to the fire.

  He glanced up at her, his face dark in shadow.

  “Do you need help?” he asked, his voice deeper than she remembered.

  They stood in silence as Eloise realized she had been stupefied watching hi
m undress. Saints preserve her, her mouth was hanging open. She slapped it shut with her chilled fingers. Before she could find her voice, he was walking over.

  “Turn around,” he said, making a twirling motion with his finger.

  Swallowing hard, Eloise spun around, relieved not to face Roland in naught but his braies.

  “Hmmm.”

  Eloise turned to face him. “I can’t. It won’t,” she said, trying to pull the tight-fitting strap and wicked buckle from her waist.

  He sighed, before tackling the stubborn buckle. Eloise held her breath until the buckle gave way and she could remove her quiver. She removed her girdle and pouch.

  “I’ll take all that,” he said. “And return with a blanket.”

  Eloise now faced the prospect of truly undressing, behind a wet blanket Roland held up.

  Shivering and wet, a snort escaped her as she struggled to slip her elbow out of her sleeve, her soaked linen chemise wound tight on her arm, further weighed down by the wool surcoat. Satan’s horns indeed she thought, sighing, and very thankful Roland wasn’t complaining, or worse, offering to help. God forbid.

  “I didn’t realize Tiomu had so many men,” Eloise said, returning her thoughts to the plight of her family. “Men in reserve, just waiting for their turn to fight.” She envisioned ship upon ship landing on the northern shore with more soldiers unloading to descend upon Dahlquin and all Ireland. She paused with her own words. This went beyond her home, her needs.

  “He has many men, but the castle is secure. Dahlquin can hold out for weeks,” he said.

  “But that hole?” she asked, pulling her elbow through. “Finally,” she sighed, slipping the surcoat over her head.

  “Easily blocked,” Roland offered. “More importantly, it was an outer wall. Best you father abandons the stables and remains behind the greater, fortified wall.”

  The snug-fitting chemise proved as difficult as the wool surcoat, but eventually it came off. The cold air prickled her exposed skin and she hugged herself and the soggy binding already loosening from her chest. This must remain, and she bent to remove her calf sheath and dagger.