by Anne Beggs
“Do you think Tiomu was lying about Ashbury?” she asked.
“I believe his men misdirected us,” his voice trailed off.
Shame and modesty aside, the drenched bindings on her breasts would not be refastened. Exhaling in defeat, she unwound the linen. Only her wooden cross pendant remained hanging from its wet leather thong.
“I’ve finished,” she said, embarrassment weakening her words.
Roland wrapped the wet blanket around her, then held his hand out for her wet clothes.
Eloise hesitated, not wishing him to handle her garments. A chill rattled her and she shook head to toe.
“Sit by the fire,” he said, “and hold that blanket tight, will you,” his voice again taking on that low register. “I’ll lay these out to dry.”
Roland sat across the fire from her with only his saddle blanket across his lap, rotating his braies by the fire with prodigious care. Eloise watched the mesmerizing quality of the fire. The coals glowed in vivid red and grey ash, vibrant yellow and muted gold flames rose up, twisting and spiraling. With brilliant elegance and seductive grace did the blaze give way to the darkness. Eloise also took notice of the bronze warrior before her. Muscle and flesh absorbed the firelight and reflected back a tawny glow. A thick mat of dark hair covered his chest. The savage bruises and lacerations he bore, which only last week would have roused her attention, seemed minor now.
“May you have goodness, Lord,” she said after Roland added more wood.
He nodded and she was relieved for the quiet between them, for she couldn’t fathom a single word. When he yawned, she was compelled to do the same.
Exhausted and numb, Eloise experienced only the fire before her. It warmed her skin and dried her garments. Faintly aware of the satisfying smell, the cracks and pops of the burning wood, she had some momentary respite from the groans and anguish left behind at Dahlquin. Unable or unwilling to acknowledge her naked vulnerability with this stranger, Eloise eventually fell asleep.
CONNACHT, 11th of June
Tiomoid U’Neill paced his tent. He didn’t like the report. Careless. Three riders and loose horses had escaped the castle. Sir Reginald had been slain, but two of the riders had been pursued to the waterfall’s edge, only to jump off rather than be taken. Drowned, he had been told. Surely no one could survive that.
By daylight he had sent a patrol to retrieve the bodies. He would mock Hubert by staking all three bodies before Dahlquin as a reminder of their fate. Instead of bodies, his men found tracks up the bank and beyond: two riders had escaped. Surely Meath or FitzGilbert was their purpose.
“Fools!” Tiomu shouted. One body would give Dahlquin hope.
“Fools,” the captain of the patrol confirmed, “the tracks were headed southeast. Could be they would seek relief at Ashbury. I sent two of my riders after them.”
“Good decision,” Tiomoid said, “taking the initiative to send two men. Already they’re woefully behind.” Tiomoid slammed his fist into his other hand. “Damn careless!” he said remembering the failure of his men last night. “Bring the cowardly bastards to me!” he ordered his captain.
“The cowardly bastards will be brought, sir,” the captain said, waiting until he was dismissed.
“They will serve as an example of a job incomplete.” This would give him a body count of three. Tiomoid would match barbarism with barbarism, and all would know he was meant to be king.
Tiomu’s two riders cantered on the trail of the escapees from Dahlquin.
“They ran a good clip,” Broccan said. He was an U’Neill cousin, with more ambition than property, easily fueled by Tiomu’s vision of U’Neill domination.
“Luck was upon them,” Seamus said. “Escaping the castle. The falls.” His family served Clan U’Neill, existing on the Ulster march.
“Not that one-handed bastard, though,” chuckled Broccan. “Unlucky as Hell, I say.”
“Him, some powerful Dahlquin magic, that,” Seamus offered.
“Bah,” Broccan snorted, “piss-poor magic, I be thinking. To lose hand and life.”
“Sir Reginald, someone claimed. Second in command. Why send him?”
“A dying man,” Broccan said slowly, “had to be a decoy, slowing us up so the others could escape. Unbelievable ballocks Dahlquin has, to launch such an escape. And luck,” he conceded.
Their horses veered. The men corrected as their nervous mounts snorted then tried to spin and flee. Seamus backed his horse.
“Broccan!” he called, fearing an ambush.
The riders tried to settle their horses, listening, searching.
“Vultures,” Broccan observed as a black bird soared down, disappearing from view.
“Something was ambushed,” Seamus said, urging his reluctant horse forward.
Still the horses balked, refusing to move forward despite the coaxing spurs.
“Fucking stupid beast!” shouted Broccan, spanking his brown horse with the braided end of his reins as the horse tossed his head, spinning in place.
“You’re the fucking stupid one,” Seamus scolded. “Your red hair masks a black heart. Hold mine, I’ll look.” Seamus dismounted and handed his reins to Broccan. “Don’t lose him,” he said as he trotted down the track to explore.
The vultures grudgingly took to the sky, their long black wings pumping, scaring the horses anew. Seamus whistled.
“What is it?” Broccan called impatiently.
“Coo, quite a hunt,” Seamus exclaimed. Paw prints. The same two horses’ hooves they’d been tracking. He scratched his head, examining the ground before him. Not dogs. Not beaters. Not a mistake, the escapees had been attacked. Seamus scanned the surrounding area.
“Seamus!” Broccan shouted.
“Wolves,” Seamus called, trotting back to his companion.
“Dead wolves?”
“Two of them. And our lucky prey has escaped yet again,” he said, mounting up. “Best we skirt this track, and go through the orchard.”
ON THE ROAD, 11th of June
Although the sun had risen, it remained shyly behind high cloud cover. Having dressed during the night, Roland lay sleeping as Eloise wrapped the linen scrap around her bosom. Next, she pulled her dry linen chemise over her head and slipped her arms into the sleeves. She ignored the fraying hem where only yesterday the garment had been cut away to resemble a youth’s length. Her wool surcoat too had been hacked away, butchered, like her family. Her hand went to the wooden cross pendant hanging at her chest. She lifted the worn cross and kissed it, before saying a prayer of thankfulness for surviving another day.
“You’re a pilgrim, then?” Roland asked.
“What?” Eloise yelped, spinning in surprise to see Roland awake and studying her. Had he watched her dress?
“That wooden cross, it looks like something a pilgrim would wear,” he explained. “Is it upside down?”
“My father gave it to me,” she said. “It’s his design.”
An ingenious design, a simple wooden cross with a leather thong around the neck, a small blade hidden within, held by a metal clasp. With one hand Eloise could grab the top, the handle of a small dagger, whose transept served as the hilt: a weapon of last resort. Were Eloise assaulted and all other means of escape thwarted, she could grab this small blade and impale her assailant by eye, temple or throat. Her mother had one just like it. Eloise could never imagine her gentle mother using this blade, though her father and Uncle Reggie assured her Aine was quite capable. After witnessing her mother's confidence with the crossbow, Eloise had much to reevaluate.
“It’s a humble design,” Roland commented.
“Our Lord and Savior was crucified on a wooden cross,” she said. “It’s comforting,” and it was. She crossed herself, and he followed her lead. “It’s upside down, until I lift it in prayer.” She demonstrated by taking it in her hand, and so it was right side up, facing her. She kissed it and let it hang.
“Very pious,” he commented solemnly as he rose and brushed his g
arments.
“And a thief wouldn’t waste his time on such a worthless item,” she added. A gold or silver cross would be a target, reducing its value as a weapon in the final moments. Very clever, her father, and she smiled at the thought.
“Pious and practical,” Roland chuckled. “Clever man, your father.”
Eloise pulled on her boots and attached her calf sheath.
“Let’s conduct our own mass, eh, before saddling up,” Roland said as he kneeled. She joined him. “Heavenly Father,” he began, and she bowed her head clutching her wooden pendant as she made the sign of the cross.
They rode through southern fields undisturbed by U’Neill. Along with the edible crops of wheat, barley, turnips, cabbage, onions and leeks, a crop of flax grew steadily. The farmers busily weeded the vital crop, the source of valuable linen of which there was never enough. Though Connacht had poorer soil, Ireland had the perfect conditions to grow, cultivate and process the flax stalks into the fibrous strands needed to make the linen used for clothing, tableware, bedding and more. Was all this at risk, Eloise wondered? Their very lives and existence was right here, thriving before her, but for how long? The crops that would sustain the manor through the next year lay at her feet, acre upon acre, unprotected, unknowing. Through the open uncultivated lands, she prayed the herdsmen had taken the cattle out to farther pastures, away from Tiomu’s thieving hordes.
“Oh, active bears,” Eloise commented, for on the same trail they were traversing were three piles of bear skat. “Egg shells, too,” she said, seeing the remains in one of the piles.
“Wait,” Roland said, “ho!” to his horse.
Eloise watched as he studied the piles. He glanced up at her once before resuming his investigation.
“God's blood!” he exclaimed, riding next to her. “How big do the bear get in Connacht?”
“Well they vary, the cubs start out not bigger than cats. They can grow quite large, nearly as large as a bull.”
Roland whistled. “We, my men and I, saw a pig as big as a bear. Last night I witnessed wolves as big as ponies. So, I wondered what size a bear might attain.”
“Your comparisons are accurate. Still, bears are the size of bears, pigs the size of pigs and wolves the size of wolves.”
“Hmmm, they’re larger than I’m accustomed.” He rode on a bit. “I like it,” he said, and Eloise thought he looked pleased. They rode on.
Eloise contemplated Roland’s observations. Were the animals smaller in Leinster? Or had these noble creatures been hunted to such a small stature? Hunted till stunted. The wordplay should have been humorous, but she found it a sad paradox. She hunted as she was taught. Thus taught, she honored the sacred responsibility of predator and prey - and she savored the benefit of the kill for the nourishment provided.
She didn’t give voice to her perturbation, but the question was posed in her conscience.
“Is hunger upon you?” she asked some miles later. “These farmers should remember me.”
“Oh, hunger consumes me,” Roland agreed, “Starvation is upon me.” They ambled into a farmyard.
A woman emerged from a small hut, two children clinging to her. Another woman with a crying baby came out of her hut as well to see who approached.
“Remember me?” Eloise called out, waving. “I’m Lord Hubert’s page. We came through here a month past.” She had not come dressed as a page then, but one was with them. “Aine and Aine,” she identified them by their same names. “Like my-” Eloise corrected herself, “Our Lady Mother.”
Both women kneeled in their doorways but appeared afraid to speak.
“We’ve grievous hunger, with many miles ahead of us. Lord Dahlquin would ask you to share whatever we may take with us.”
Artoch took that moment to pee in their yard. Roland leaned forward in the saddle as the potent-smelling urine splashed and puddled. As if it were contagious, Garth did the same. Eloise rolled her eyes as she too leaned forward to relieve the pressure on his back and kidneys.
“Take what you will,” Aine, the older woman said, head down, her undressed children staring slack-jawed and teary eyed at Eloise and Roland.
“We want some eggs, bread or cheese. We can’t wait for something to be prepared. What can we carry away now?” Eloise said more urgently. Did she look such a threat? She glanced at Roland, tall, dark and menacing in the saddle. His hair was windblown and knotted. Beard and clothing unkempt. He looked like he might eat the baby. Eloise glanced down at her legs and boots and touched her face with the back of her hand. Did she look such a fright, too?
“You just had a baby. I remember that,” Eloise spoke gently to Aine, the young mother. “A little girl.”
The two women exchanged glances, then nodded. Except for the crying baby, the yard had an ill quiet. There were neither chickens nor fowl of any kind and Eloise saw the hog sty was vacant with not a piglet or lamb in sight. Roland, too, was scanning the empty farmyard.
“What happened here?” Eloise asked. “A raid? Scragmuir!” she said, the old hatred coming to the fore. Now she saw the deep ruts in the ground; carts or wagons had been here.
“I think not,” Roland said to Eloise, turning his attention back to the women. “Answer the boy!” he commanded.
The women trembled. One of the small children began to wail and his mother clutched him beneath her. “Shush, shush,” she said, her face down in submission.
“Is this how you address one of your Lord’s men?” Roland asked, his voice matching his harsh appearance. “Speak.”
“Soldiers. Knights. Claimed Lord Hubert was dead,” Aine whimpered. “Said Tiomoid U’Neill was our new lord.”
Eloise gasped.
“They took everything!” the young mother said, crying with her baby. “Everything but crops in the field. They-” she dropped her head and wept into the dirt.
“U’Neill,” Roland confirmed, glowering as he surveyed the surrounding land still in cultivation.
“Did they-” Eloise started, afraid to hear the answer. “Did they hurt you?”
She could tell by their sobs they were ill-used. And what was to be done? She remembered the carnage wrought within the castle walls, the gruesome murders in her own bed chamber.
“Did they steal anyone?” Eloise asked, holding her breath hoping none of their own men, boys or girls had been forced into servitude to Tiomoid U’Neill.
Both women shook their heads.
“My-” Eloise caught herself again. “Our Lord Hubert is not dead. He will make Tiomoid U’Neill pay for his foul crimes perpetrated upon Dahlquin. Tiomu’s blood and that of his traitors will suckle your swine.”
“How many were there?” Roland asked.
“Eight,” The elder Aine said, looking to the younger Aine for confirmation. Aine nodded.
“Maybe three knights. And the carts and drivers.”
“Where were they going?” Roland asked. “Were they from Dahlquin or Ashbury did they say?”
Good questions. Eloise had been so outraged by this attack on her people she wasn’t thinking in the present. Where indeed?
Trembling, the elder Aine looked up. “Don’t know, Sire.” She cringed, expecting reprimand. When none came, she continued. “After taking all the food and stock, they commanded us keep to our labor, lest we wish to fight.” She hesitated. “They left us naught to eat. Same with the farms about.”
Eloise felt her stomach ache with hunger, hers and theirs. Her bow, Cara, was in her hand, humming with potential. Her quiver was armed with broad heads and bodkins for a siege, not blunts or hare tips for a merry hunt. Were Tiomu’s men poaching her father’s game even now? Greed and lust ravaging the sacred lands entrusted to her family? Curse him!
“We drink boiled grass, fills the gut with warmth, little more,” Aine was saying as Eloise still calculated the possibilities of rallying these farmers, setting snares and hunting game. The excess could be smoked and held in reserve for her father’s men when they broke free of the castle. Toget
her she and they would wreak such vengeance upon U’Neill...
“Bring us some,” Roland was saying.
“Boiled grass?” Eloise asked. Why would he take that when she would have flesh and greens within the hour? Aine and Aine rose and disappeared into their huts.
Garth turned his head and Eloise turned to see the farmers, four men, three youths and five women walking in from the fields, tools in hand. She waved, but they didn’t return the gesture.
“You know the leader?” Roland asked her.
“Rori, the Headman,” she said, for almost everyone shared a mere handful of the same names, usually after her own family or other relatives, as did Aine and Aine.
“Headman!” Roland called as the group approached. “We’re from Dahlquin Castle. Lord Hubert is not murdered. The traitor U’Neill lies. But we are at war.”
Eloise watched as the group digested this news. She was disappointed they didn’t cheer such good fortune as the castle inhabitants did. Her disappointment turned to momentary anger. They should kiss the very soil they tilled to be servants of her Lord Father, Hubert of Dahlquin, rather than dredges to the traitor U’Neill or the heinous Scragmuirs.
Aine held up a wooden bowl of warm grass broth, but Eloise shook her head. “I can’t, may you have goodness,” she said, looking at the mud and sweat covered workers. “Let them take their meal. They have earned more.” Her stomach growled in protest as Aine quickly handed the bowl to her husband. He gulped it down lest Eloise change her mind.
Eloise listened as the headman shared what he knew, that U’Neill’s men were collecting anything edible for the armies at Ashbury and Dahlquin. Snares were set and the streams were netted. They would return every other day and if there wasn’t enough food, they would reduce the hungry mouths by taking the children. As she listened, she studied the farmstead. Pitchforks, clubs, brooms, wood, twine, hand plow, saws and axes for chopping: all formidable weapons in trained hands. If she could kill a bullock or deer, sequester the meat so the families wouldn’t starve…rather, she thought, and a new idea came to her. Taint the meat, of course, and have it ready for U’Neill’s carts.
