by Anne Beggs
“Enigma. Ha,” he laughed. “Knowledge is power, thus I keep my advantage.” He gave her a superior half grin.
And so it was: the Forbidden Fruit of knowledge. Eloise longed for more knowledge, for education she believed existed beyond Dahlquin. Here was this stranger, from beyond Dahlquin, and just like her parents, he would deny her answers. Suppress knowledge, suppress your opponent.
“Wise is the master,” she said, giving him a half-nod of disapproval before adding, “I suppose this ignorant page will just have to ride faster to ease the boredom of the miles.”
“Ow, would you be so heartless to cause the death of my-” Roland paused, “noble steed?” he countered, but his smug expression had waned.
“I would not, my Lord, as you say, the power is yours. To entice me with tales of your illustrious family,” she said, unable to suppress a grin, “or to eat my mud.”
Roland’s eyebrows rose and his dark eyes glinted with ebony mischief. His lips were pressed tightly but bowed up at the edges. Eloise suspected he was accepting her challenge with a caveat of his own. Don’t reveal your feelings, she counseled herself, but the grin remained.
“Let me propose,” he said slowly, “first tell me what you know of me. Mayhap I will embellish the history.”
Disappointed, Eloise pondered that a moment. She knew little. More importantly she didn’t want exaggerations. That would only make him a mythical mystery, while remaining a very real stranger.
“Not up to the challenge?” he goaded.
“My Lord, I will speak what I know, first.” Eloise hoped she tipped her head with an adequate amount of regard and reservation, before tilting her head with an arched eyebrow. “Lest I shame you into revealing a lineage best kept secret.”
Roland’s expression tightened only slightly, and the corner of his left eye twitched. He scratched his temple with a gloved finger then rubbed his chin, the half-smile returning. “My secrets become more powerful by the moment.”
“I’ll start with that,” Eloise said bemused. “My Lord Roland of Ashbury-At-March, comes from Leinster, has two brave and glorious brother knights, Guillaume and Sedric.”
“I’m brave and glorious,” he added with a friendly smirk.
“Your brave and glorious squires were murdered on the route to Ashbury,” she continued. Eloise crossed herself with their memory. This was true history, not folly.
“Two brave and glorious lads were murdered as we discovered,” Roland said. “But my squire, Val, remains in Leinster, recovering from a plague of the lungs, poor lad. Poor but alive, I trust.”
“I hope he is well recovered,” Eloise said, almost singing her delight to hear something uplifting.
“Val will be sorely displeased with you, if your rigorous pace kills my horse. Isn’t that right, Artoch?” Roland said stroking the black stallion’s sweating neck. “Val is wickedly fond of horses, especially this one,” Roland said, giving Eloise a warning look as he continued to stroke Artoch’s neck. “He can converse day and night with unending enthusiasm about anything equine. He’ll love Connacht.”
“So, he will,” Eloise agreed, a bit surprised by Roland’s sudden burst of warmth. “Hmmm hm hm hm hmmm hmmm hmmm” she hummed merrily, her voice rising and dipping. “It will be a pleasure to meet this exemplary young man. I have fondness of him already, strange as his name is. Dahlquin has been blessed by our new neighbors.”
“That is most gracious of you to say,” Roland nodded to her. “It’s an honor and a blessing upon us - me, as well.”
“And that is the extent and breadth of my knowledge of my brave and glorious Lord Roland of At-March. Sir, your family tree is sadly bleak, and begs some foliage. Might we start with the distaff side?” She continued to let her voice rise and fall. Already she was forming a song of Lord Roland’s history as they had shared; an enjoyable task to ease the miles and aid her memory.
“My Lady Mother’s name was Ariana.”
Eloise sighed. “Ariana,” she repeated the name slowly, with a lilt. “That is one of the most beautiful names I’ve ever heard. Ariana,” she nearly moaned in admiration. “Was?” Eloise asked as she caught the past tense.
“Was,” he paused. “She died during the winter of my seventh year.”
“A thousand shames upon me for your suffering and loss.” Eloise crossed herself and said a prayer for Roland’s mother.
“Like your mother, she was pious and gentle. I pray for her spirit always.”
“My Lord, it grieves me to have brought up such a painful memory. I didn’t know.” Aching with Roland’s loss, and wishing she could hold her Mathair, Eloise wrapped her arms about herself.
He paused before speaking again. “She had thick black hair that hung past her waist. Sad brown eyes.” Roland sighed, and Eloise worried she had pried too much. But Roland seemed to brighten, his lips softening into an almost smile. “She was from southern Spain. Andalucia.”
Eloise gasped, almost squealing with this news.
Smiling, Roland continued. “I’ve never been to Spain, nor met any of my Lady Mother’s family. One day I would very much enjoy a progression to my mother’s homeland.”
“Oh, a family progression,” Eloise sighed, imagining such a pilgrimage and adventure. “Santiago di Compostella, down to Andalucia.” She clapped her hands with momentary glee.
“An extensive journey to be sure,” Roland said. His brown eyes glowed and his gaze felt like a summer caress upon her.
“You must favor her, you’re very dark,” Eloise continued, feeling both warmed and startled. Mayhap he was descended from Rodrigo Diaz, El Cid, and his mother a former Infidel, blessedly converted to the true faith. Oh, that was exciting to think on. How exotic! “By your will, tell me more,” she asked. This was precisely what she longed to hear.
Such a wonder he was so tall, and broad shouldered. Very muscular, not unlike her father. But where Hubert was fair, Roland was dark, with well-chiseled features. His hair was a thick mane that didn’t get enough regular grooming, his dark brown eyes smoldered with emotion. My, she was spending some time thinking about this striking young lord…and she was staring. Was her mouth gaping? She closed it. Did he notice? She snapped her attention back to the road. Peering out of the corner of her eye, she thought Roland was grinning. She was embarrassed and felt her cheeks burn.
Eloise closed her mouth and turned away. Her cheeks were rosy and when she glanced back at him, he knew she was embarrassed as well as intrigued. It seeped through him with the delicacy of fruit wine, bonum vinum. Roland felt he was fast becoming intoxicated. If ever there were an enigma, it was the girl next to him.
His mind turned back to his mother. He’d almost always known her to have sad eyes, Roland reflected. Life wasn’t easy for her either. Perhaps harder. It would be difficult for a mother to watch her children unfairly used and be helpless to do anything about it. As a child, he had been furious with his mother for allowing his father to be so cruel. Roland remembered crying, cursing, sometimes striking out at her in frustration. Instead of retaliation, his mother would hold him, rocking and singing until he settled - as she did with all her children in the seven short years he had with her. Now he understood his mother had done as much as she could to intercede for her children. It wasn’t a woman’s place to disagree with her husband. A man wasn’t restricted by law as to how he dealt with his family. Beyond his father’s hall, Roland discovered a martial world, governed by laws and a code of conduct that did not condone such behaviour. Tyrants abounded, but they were the sinners.
His life without her warmth and love became untenable. To this day he thanked God that his father had fostered him. Roland had never been back, and never intended to return - or did he?
“And your Lord Father?” Eloise asked. “Am I to hear of him?” Eloise smiled up at him expectantly. How different her existence had been. Her blue-grey eyes were eager and hopeful, waiting to hear more good of him.
“My father,” Roland hesitated. Eloise had
been exceedingly pleased with his mother’s Spanish lineage, though he provided little of substance. His father’s title, wealth and power were much to be commended. “Lord Guy of Charnley, Earl of Cardiffshire, in southern-” He didn’t finish.
“You’re English,” she interrupted, eyes wide with astonishment, her hand over her mouth. “Does my father know?” she asked in a hushed whisper, removing her hand from her mouth. The glee in her eyes was replaced by something more disdainful.
“He does,” Roland said, offended by her reaction. This was an unpleasant revelation to her, when she should have been impressed.
Eloise stared at him anew. “I wasn’t told. Spain is neutral enough, but England.” Her voice was low, secreted, as if the very words were distasteful.
“I’m not an abomination.” Her derogatory tone irritated him. “Your overlords,” he added.
“Shame upon me, it’s just…the Earl of Cardiffshire. You’re from Leinster. Such shame not to have known,” she stammered. Her blue-grey eyes poured over him as if he needed washing. She studied every part of him, careful not to make eye contact. Clearly, she didn’t appreciate the Earl of Cardiffshire’s status, especially in relation to her humble Connacht standing. His father, whom he despised, corresponded directly with King Henry. Her own Welsh grandfather sailed to Ireland under the direction of the former King Henry. Had she forgotten her own English heritage and servitude?
“Such shame because you were rude? Or because I’m English?” He glared at her sternly.
The edges of her mouth started to turn up and she looked down, in an attempt to hide her amusement. “Both,” she shrugged, her answer short, blunt and English, without apology.
Roland had no reply. Connacht abounded in insubordination at every level. He remembered the challenge in the farmer’s presence with their implements of toil held as weapons. And Eloise, not only willing to hunt to feed them, laborer’s, but encouraging them to rise above their station to fight.
They rode on in silence. Roland’s back ached from all the long miles in the saddle. When Sir Reginald had instructed his niece that Roland would dictate if they would stop, if they would eat, and if they would rest, Roland believed Eloise would be the burden, unused to the harsh rigors of life on the road without comfort of wagon, beds or tents. However, it was he who was tired, he who needed sorely to rest and he who was hungry. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to reveal his human weakness to this Maiden of Dahlquin. Up one hill, down another, through fields of wheat, barley and flax. Farmers, shirtless and bent to their endless tasks. Would these fields soon be stripped and wasted as the ones they had passed? Should he risk telling these poor workers? Would they desert, or join U’Neill? Saints preserve him, he was thinking like her. Again, Roland looked back over his shoulder. They were coming, he felt it. While these men pursued him and Eloise from behind, what were they riding into? Would Lord Bryan be waiting for them?
Lord Bryan of New Pembrokeshire should be warned. He wouldn’t support Tiomoid U’Neill and his mercenaries against Connacht. But, aye, Eloise was a risk. God’s blood she complicated things.
How straight and regal she sat in the saddle. No mere page, her. Her presence exuded through the trappings of a servant. And her slender legs. No wonder women always wore gowns. Legs were a huge distraction and led to a very shapely behind.
“You ride well,” he broke the silence, hoping to renew the companionship they had shared.
“May you have goodness, Lord,” she acknowledged. After a pause, “So do you.”
Roland was unable to detect if her reply was sarcasm, an obscure compliment or masked insult.
Either way, he enjoyed seeing her at ease after the long, grueling ordeal of the days and nights before. In this moment, the lines of worry and anguish were replaced with gentle eyes, at least for her horse, and the glimmer of a smile, at his expense, mayhap. How much prettier she would be if not hidden behind the garments of a page, and her hair hidden under that silly cap of Tuath’s. How long was her hair? He had only seen it braided and mussed, at Dahlquin Castle. How might it look lying across her shoulders, or his pillow, well mussed indeed? Rosy lips from the shared chalice of fruit wine, left unfinished upon a table. He suppressed a groan.
Her boy’s clothing, what a relief to know that was all gossip. He snorted. What a fool he had been to give heed to such malicious rumour. He could hear Guillaume's words even now: “Don’t content yourselves with the idle gossip of the stable hands and kitchen wenches. The High Lord counts on strong, intelligent and educated knights to support him.” Roland breathed a silent curse to his friend. Was it not Guillaume who suggested Lady Aine and Eloise were twin succubi? Were they? Frowning, Roland rubbed the back of neck. What was Guillaume doing now? And how did Sedric fare? He was poorly when they left. How quickly things changed. Roland continued frowning.
“What’s amiss, my Lord? You look angry.” I’d be angry if I were English, she thought. Then she crossed herself and asked forgiveness; it was mean to make folly of her guard and escort. Besides, his lineage wasn’t his choice. She watched him. Mayhap he had hunger. Mayhap he had anger to be stuck as nursemaid to her while the fighting was back at Ashbury. You are my responsibility. His words echoed in her mind. She didn't ask him to come, and she resented his intrusion, his assumption of responsibility. It was not Uncle Reggie’s right to assign her over to this English…usurper! What did he know of her or Dahlquin or Connacht or Ireland for that matter? Her kinsmen were dying back at Dahlquin, depending on her to seek aide, and she would do it, surly English knight or not. She was responsible. If they were followed, all the more reason to keep a steady pace.
“Would you like to stop and eat?” Roland asked again, ignoring her question. “It’s a week’s ride to High Lord FitzGilbert’s castle. Surely you don’t intend to do it without stopping.”
“May you have goodness for your concern, but I would not.” There was insufficient need to stop again. “It’s four days to Leinster, messengers’ pace.”
“Artoch isn’t a messenger. Neither am I,” Roland chuffed. “Seems I just said this. Bah. The horses need to rest. And it’s a week to Leinster,” Roland corrected.
“If you wish to stop, let’s find a place. You can take a week or a month or a year to get to Leinster, my Lord.”
Roland studied her. Scrawny, she and her mother. I’d never let my family go hungry. Your family? a bemused voice asked in his head. You have no family, who are you to judge? She’s in your care now, he thought, feed her for Heaven’s sake.
“You look near starved, we should stop and eat,” he announced.
“My Lord,” she huffed. Or was she sighing? “Great hunger upon me.” She placed a hand on her belly. “But we haven’t anything to eat, yet. So, with your will, don’t stop on my unworthy needs,” she countered. “As you, my Lord, anxiety is upon me, like a bristly mantle with the weight of iron to reach High Lord FitzGilbert. There are miles ahead of us and plenty of daylight. Every person we pass on this road is suspect. Are they in league with U’Neill? Are traitors stealthily making their way to slit the throats of the unsuspecting?”
“I decide.”
“You decide, my lord,” she answered with a page’s crispness.
The day was young. By the time they got something to eat, built a fire and cooked it, precious daylight hours would have passed. There wasn’t time. Not to cook and not to eat if they were being chased.
“You know this area better than I. Are there any villages, lodges, farms around?” he asked, an edge of hope in his voice.
“There are villages and farms in the next dozen miles or so,” she offered.
Their first evening’s ride had been a solitary one. More people shared the roads with them. Late spring, early summer was a busy time in this agrarian-based society. They passed acres of fields in various stages of plowing, planting, weeding and tending. The hours were long, tedious and backbreaking for the villeins and freemen who worked the earth. Most of what they produced went directly
to their lord. The lord in turn paid handsomely to his king. All this he knew. But now he felt it. I am such a lord, I must do this.
Crossing a stream provided an opportunity to water and rest the horses. Garth and Eloise seemed able to ride without stopping. Artoch and Roland were used to travelling at a realistic pace, or at an army’s slow progress. Roland laid out upon the dry bank, gulped water, dunked his face in the cool stream and drank some more, as muscles stretched and loosened. Eloise held the reins as both horses drank deeply.
“Not thirsty?” he asked between slurps.
“I have thirst,” she said, waiting. When Roland and the horses were sated, she crouched down, upstream from where the horses had muddied it, and used the skin bag, filling, drinking and refilling. Standing again, she stretched her back, arching as a cat might do if it could stand on two legs. She curled her hands around each other and bent at the knees, making a very satisfied noise, between a squeal and a sigh.
Warmed by the sight and sound, Roland smiled. She shook out her legs, touched her toes a few times. Roland had to look away because her short tunic revealed entirely too much leg. He thought of Sir Reginald’s last words: ‘I’ll haunt you from the gates of Hell!’ were Eloise hurt. Roland felt that cold breeze blow over him again. Could that foul spectre read minds from the grave?
“What was that all about?” Roland asked, nodding his head in the direction of the stream.
“Sire, what did I do?” she asked.
“Afraid to get wet?” he asked, knowing she wasn’t, having witnessed her jump off a waterfall.
“Ah, my father had a way with one-time lessons,” she answered, rolling her eyes at the memory.
“Well?” he asked.
“I was ten years old,” Eloise started. “Father, Uncle Reggie and I stopped to water the horses, my pony and ourselves. Hot and sunny.” She closed her eyes a moment as if remembering the warmth. “I had such thirst. I just jumped off my pony and started drinking alongside the hounds. Just as you did. So good and cool.” She sighed. “I even remember the song birds, such a joyous day. Then a huge, painful weight was on my neck, shoulders. Pinned me face down in the water. I was drowning for sure. The more I struggled, the greater the pressure. Rocks scraping me,” she said, rubbing her cheeks expressively. “I panicked.”
