Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Seamus and Broccan had ridden hard all day in pursuit of the escapees from Dahlquin. The farmers concurred that two hungry riders, identifying themselves as Lord Hubert’s men, had come through. Food was not given, the farmers insisted. Seamus had choked the grass broth down, but Broccan spit the brew into the woman’s face calling it piss water. That was miles ago, and here they were at some boundary, Ashbury perhaps, but Seamus had never been to Connacht before and wasn’t sure. His horse was near collapsing.

  “Foul nag you’ve got there, Seamus,” Broccan said, not for the first time.

  He wasn’t a foul nag yesterday. Seamus valued the gelding and regretted ruining the animal in this chase. Broccan’s horse looked not a whit better, but the man cared little. Seamus cared and that made him easy sport for Broccan’s malicious humor.

  “If this is the frontier between Dahlquin and Ashbury, then we’ve about two hours ‘til we meet up with our force,” Seamus said.

  Passing through the fence, Broccan sat up.

  “Before God!” Seamus exclaimed. “There they are. Stealing the cattle?” It wasn’t possible, but there they were, the black and grey, man and boy. After all this time, this ignoble chase was at an end.

  “Or playing with them. The poor sons of sows on the ground are making a stand, aren’t they?” Broccan said with a chuckle.

  “Let’s get them,” Seamus snarled, sword out.

  Broccan drew his sword and the race was on. Both horses were exhausted, and with ears pinned, they cantered rather than galloped towards the cattle.

  The man on the black horse looked up.

  “He’s seen us,” Seamus called to Broccan.

  “Run you cowardly bastard, run! You’re surrounded,” Broccan yelled.

  Seamus watched as the man and boy fled. The once docile and uncooperative cattle suddenly charged, but instead of moving as one fluid herd the worried red bovines split into three different groups running and circling in a whorl of pounding bodies. Broccan cut left, his curses lost in the thunder of hooves. Seamus nearly ran over one of the cattlemen as his gelding veered sharp right, stride for stride with a wild-eyed calf. Shaggy red cattle pressed in on him from the other side, crushing his feet, oblivious to his spurs. Ahead of him was a wall of cattle fleeing perpendicular to his group. He felt his gelding hesitate as if seeing the red wall, but never losing stride for there was naught the horse could do.

  “Fuck!” Seamus murmured, his bowels clenching. In the final moment, the cattle and his gelding veered sharp right again, almost spinning in a full circle. For a brief moment he saw Broccan, whose wide-toothed grin and flushed cheeks appeared almost demonic in mirth. The gelding broke down to an amble and Seamus directed his heaving horse away from the cattle.

  “Keep walking, old fellow,” he said, patting the gelding’s neck. “That’s enough.”

  Miraculously, neither the cattlemen nor he and Broccan were hurt.

  “There’s a saint for cow men,” Broccan said, approaching, indicating the two men still trying to redirect the settling herd.

  “But not for your horse,” Seamus answered, noticing the horse’s limp. “We’ll get fresh ones at the castle. And more men, too.”

  “Fucking lucky, those two,” Broccan said, pointing a thumb in the direction of the escapees.

  “Lucky,” Seamus said. “Lucky bastards indeed,” but he was thinking of themselves. “Let’s see what they have to say.” He waved at the cattlemen.

  “Who were those riders?” Eloise asked when Roland caught up with her. Both horses were still puffing from their long run.

  “Tiomu’s men, of course,” Roland answered with a gruff edge to his voice. His cheeks were flushed.

  “Of course,” she said with exasperation. “But where were they from? Were they with the carts back at the farm?”

  Roland gave her a long, dour look. “My gut tells me they followed us from Dahlquin.”

  “Dahlquin? But- Sorrow,” she said bowing her head when she saw the anger on his face. She was sorely out of place.

  “Tiomu U’Neill is a thorough man. It’s what I would do,” he said. “Run us down.” His voice sounded gravelly, and Eloise thought of hares gone to ground.

  “Any hope we may have held that Ashbury was safe,” Roland said, looking in the direction of the forbidden castle, “has been dashed. Nod your head if you agree.”

  Eloise inhaled, preparing to speak, but thought better of it and nodded her head.

  “I know you had some gallant notions to stay and fight, to protect your people.”

  He was telling her what she didn’t wish to hear. The prospect she had been avoiding since…since losing Uncle Reggie. Was her only salvation in Leinster? To sojourn so far from home?

  “I made a promise to your Uncle, and so did you. It’s the only choice left us.”

  Eloise swallowed hard before answering. “Ride when he says, stop when says, eat if he says. I remember, Lord Roland,” she said, bowing her head, fighting back the tears she must not shed, for Dahlquin pages shouldn’t cry. Inhaling, she pulled her wooden pendant from under her surcoat, “Holy Christopher, blessed saint of travelers, by your will keep us safe,” and she crossed herself. “Blessed Spirit, Abarta performer of feats, by your will help us in our quest,” and again she crossed herself. “Holy Saint Nicholas, blessed saint of the poor and needy, by your most gracious and benevolent will, keep the children safe. They are the innocents in this war.” Eloise pressed her hands together in prayer. Blessed Mother, Guardian of the wild, Eloise prayed in silence, I didn’t wish you goodness for Your grace in protecting Dahlquin or even take time to say goodbye when I left. She visualized all the glories of her native home, the forests, rainbows, waterfalls and mountains, the red deer and wolf packs, burly bear and armored swine, and the unnumbered flocks of birds. All this was behind her. Meath, the Bog of Allen and Leinster stretched beyond. With this Lord Roland of Ashbury-At-March.

  PART TWO

  ON THE ROAD, EASTERN ASHBURY, 11th of June

  “In retrospect, that stampede strategy deserves further deliberation,” Roland said as they stopped at a creek to water the horses. The corner of his mouth lifted in a reluctant grin. They had ridden for miles without talking.

  She returned a tight-lipped smile of acknowledgement. Artoch was so lathered he looked as grey as Garth.

  “We couldn’t get those stubborn cattle to move more than a few feet,” Roland continued, “but Satan’s horns, when Tiomu’s men charged us, those cows broke rank, pooling and eddying like a great bovine river.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Those riders couldn’t pass.” He chuckled. “Did you know they would do that, the cattle?” His voice was startling in its softness.

  She gave a gentle snort. “The beefy beasties can be unpredictable. Honestly, I had believed we could stampede them to Ashbury,” she admitted. “We needed some dogs and whips and prods.”

  “We did. I will keep that in my arsenal of ideas,” he said tapping his head. “It has merit. But had they moved along for us, we may have been caught unawares and killed.”

  She and Roland drained the skin bag they had and when the horses finished drinking, she got down to refill it. Once out of the saddle it seemed prudent to check the horses and tack. As Artoch and Garth snatched at the variety of greens, barely chewing before swallowing, Eloise retrieved the hoof knife from the saddle bag of one of the squires. Go with God, she thought, for though she never met the lad, she was most grateful for his supplies on this treacherous journey.

  After checking the horses’ hooves, Eloise raided a few trees of green apples.

  Apples, apples hard and green,

  Suck the life juice from mother tree,

  She sang as she picked, thinking they just might come in handy.

  Whence come autumn with shorter days

  Your juice will flow, and quench my ways

  Back on the road Eloise and Garth began to canter at the pace set that morning. Roland urged Artoch to s
peed up. The destrier took a few eager steps but returned to his slower pace. Again, Roland spurred the horse on. Eloise looked at her escort. Armed and capable, mounted on a fine destrier, but Artoch slowed them up.

  She gave them a “hurry up” expression over her shoulder. Having committed to go to Leinster, she wanted to do it fast, at messenger speed. If only Roland were on a courser.

  “Excellent time we’re making,” Roland grumbled. “Riding the horses to death will accomplish naught. It would be much slower on foot,” he reminded her.

  Eloise ignored him and kept to her pace. How much better the world appeared when viewed between the two dappled ears of her beloved Garth. This she could do, ride for help, on a horse she trained. Not sitting on her arse, sorrow, Mathair, she whispered, spinning thread or weaving cloth.

  A cloud passed before the lowering sun, and they rode in shadow. At least it wasn’t rainy. This was hard enough without inclement weather. Roland said a silent prayer of thanks for the good conditions, remembering the dragon’s breath he and his friends had endured.

  FitzGilbert would be surprised to see Roland back so soon. What bad tidings he brought with him: civil war, war with Denmark or the Norse. U’Neill had over four hundred men at Dahlquin. How many men did he have at Ashbury? Tiomu led the assault at Dahlquin. Ashbury must be the secondary effort. What ballocks to lay siege upon two castles, Roland thought.

  It always came down to fighting. He had earned his fief by fighting, and winning, repelling a brutal attack upon High Lady Brigid’s own dower estate. A disgruntled Welsh uncle had descended upon the walled village. Only a handful of armed men stood before the onslaught. Roland was richly rewarded for his brave stand as was Lord Rory the younger. Now, even before he had set eyes on his meagre holdings, he would have to fight to gain it back. At-March, Dead Man's Land, a highly contested strip of land separating Dahlquin from Scragmuir. Would there be anything to fight for? He and his friends had found nothing but mist.

  He kept a watchful eye on Eloise and Garth ahead of him. Hunger nagged him, and he pushed his horse to the limit just to keep up. He glanced behind him. Did he see a cloud of dust just behind them? Nay, he was sure the riders had gone to the castle for fresh horses and men.

  Roland checked on Eloise again. Garth cantered sideways, almost a skipping step. Was the horse alarmed, did he refuse to go farther? Next the grey stallion pivoted and cantered just as briskly from the other side. Then the horse led with his hindquarters. His long silver tail swished dramatically. It was an awkward step for a horse to try and canter backwards.

  “Do it again,” he asked.

  “I will,” she answered with a shadow of a smile. It was contagious and he smiled back without realizing it.

  “Why are you teaching him to canter backwards?”

  “Good boy,” Eloise rubbed Garth’s thick neck then stroked the crest. “Oh, it gives us a challenge to work on. My good boy,” she cooed, as she cued him to again do a leg yield, backwards.

  “Dahlquin is renowned for horses,” Eloise said, in case Roland didn’t know, “surely as far back as my great grandfather and beyond, they all had an eye for good horses.”

  “FitzGilbert treasures his,” Roland acknowledged.

  Eloise smiled, thinking in particular about the Royal Whites her father had supplied to FitzGilbert. Of course, they were truly grey, gone full white.

  “My Lady Mother doesn’t care much for horses. She recognizes their value, but she has fear.”

  “By your antics, I believe,” Roland said with a slanted grin. “Poor woman.”

  “Hmmm,” Eloise said, letting his comment slide by. “My father had me in the saddle as a wee babe. Of course I don’t remember it, but I have heard it told oft times, it feels like a true memory. I was in Mathair’s arms when Da rode up on a big red stallion, with a white blaze and two white feet, hind. I squealed and laughed and Da took me up in the saddle with him, much to Mathair’s distress. I took hold of the leather reins and we strode around the inner keep. Mathair and Uncle Reggie said my eyes were large as platters, pudgy arms and legs flailing, me shrieking with joy as if my movements were responsible for that most magnificent event. After a few laps, Da attempted to return me to Mathair.”

  “Let me see if I might guess the rest,” Roland said. “You kicked and screamed and cried.”

  Eloise was still smiling with the memories of horses and the familiar movement of Garth beneath her.

  “Marish even then,” Roland added.

  Eloise shrugged her shoulders; how often she was compared to a mare. “I rode nearly every day after that, with Da or Uncle.”

  “I believe that.”

  “Good boy,” she called to Garth, stroking his neck. “Lord?” She paused, looking at Roland, then sighed, unsure if she should proceed.

  “You were going to ask me something?”

  “What do you think is happening?” she looked over her shoulder, west towards Dahlquin. “Is the castle breached?”

  “It is not. With hot oil, the crossbowmen.”

  “But that hole? Tiomu’s men were clambering in.”

  “An outer wall and a loss. Your father will fall back behind the stouter rampart. He has only to hold up behind the walls until FitzGilbert arrives. The advantage is with the castle.”

  “So it should be,” she sighed again. “I should be there. I can shoot and tend wounds.” She swiped at her eyes. “I should be in the paddocks training horses. If not riding, there is little I would rather do than work with the horses.”

  Other images came to her, nauseating memories of her failures: carelessly dancing into the arms of one of the traitors, longing for more and fighting with her father about it. Uncle Reggie’s unwelcome reminder she was not a son. The chewed ledger. She heard in her mind the agony of the horses at the siege, burnt hide and fear. Their need and pain stabbed at her as she rode. And her human patients.

  But Garth was here, and he was safe.

  “You spend a lot of time in the stables?” Roland asked.

  “I do,” she shook her head, clearing her senses of the suffering, blocking the faces and the stench. There was nothing to be done for them now. Don’t dwell on it, just ride. “It’s where the horses are,” she added. Was he such a nit, she wondered? “When Garth was born,” she stroked his neck repeatedly as she spoke, “my father let me spend the night in the stable.”

  “You do that often?” he asked. “Sleep with the livestock?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it that!” Eloise exclaimed. “But my mother and I have oft spent a night in the stables when a valuable animal was in peril.”

  “And with Garth?”

  “And with Garth. He would know me as surely as he knew his dam,” she said, remembering the thrill. “And my father wouldn’t permit me to bring him to my bedchamber,” she added.

  “You must have been like a second, gawky filly to that mare. Which of you had the longer legs?”

  She tried to look indignant, but it was funny. She sniffed. He did have a sense of humor to match that infrequent smile. The traumatic events of the past nights and days had forced her to detach, stepping outside herself, enduring the events but not allowing herself to be absorbed by the emotions. Today she rode with changed clarity and purpose, but she was still female, still seventeen.

  At this pace they would be through Meath in a day. Dangerous as Scragmuir? She wondered. Then Leinster, Lord FitzGilbert would send help, and she would be back in the saddle with her father, and her mother, Alsandair and all Dahlquin’s children would be safe.

  How urgently she longed to get to FitzGilbert and seek help, and still it frightened her to be going there now. She worried how Dahlquin would make up the lost planting season, and all the cattle stolen and butchered. Already the stores had dwindled from last year’s harvest. Locked within the castle walls, none could hunt nor pick. If not murdered one by one, they would soon starve. How would the farmers manage with their children held hostage? Artoch was falling behind. The mig
hty horse was spent. Nothing to be done for it, they would have to stop and let him eat and rest.

  Coming upon a stream, they stopped. With building anxiety, Eloise refilled the skin bag and watched the horses drink. “Hurry up,” she scolded them. “Day light is wasting.” Not their concern, she knew. Eloise shared some of the green apples with them. Garth was reluctant, but Artoch eagerly took the small orbs.

  Roland scanned the distance behind them. Unsatisfied, he climbed a tree for a better view.

  “See anything?” She called up to him. She longed to believe the riders were not after them, that it was just a coincidence.

  “I can’t see much, nothing troublesome, at least. But I’ve not a doubt we’re pursued. They probably stopped at Ashbury for food and drink, fresh horses and more men,” he said, dropping out of the tree.

  Saddling up, she rode with her bow at the ready. They would need something to eat or trade, so it was best to be prepared.

  “Of course, who could ever overtake you?” he muttered, riding behind her on the narrow track. “Surely your butt is forged of steel.”

  “Easy prey, the way you slow us down,” she retorted, but his compliments stung her in ways she didn’t understand. Confused, she rode in silence. After two miles she spoke.

  “My Lord,” she ventured, “I know nothing about you or your family?”

  “Hmm,” he grunted, glancing at her impassively.

  “You have borne witness to much of my family. In our darkest hours. It would be a comfort to stop thinking of you as a stranger,” she added, giving him what she hoped was an imploring and appreciative grin.

  “Stranger? After all this?” he said, waving his arm behind him to include all the mayhem they had endured. Drying their garments by the open fire, she remembered, feeling her cheeks flush.

  “Exactly,” she countered, moving past her embarrassment. “You know much about my family and our histories. But you, Lord, are an enigma.” She continued to grin, unwavering as he seemed to consider the opportunity before him.