Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “Where was your father or Uncle?” Roland asked

  “Where indeed, I wondered? Couldn’t open my mouth to scream. I thought I was dying. I heard a familiar voice. ‘Enough already, Hubert, she’ll die. Christ’s Blood let her up.’”

  “Your father?” Roland asked. “Why?”

  “I couldn’t breathe. I flailed uselessly. Even now, I still remember hearing the birds. I was dying, but they continued singing. Or was it angels in heaven?”

  “What happened?” Roland asked, extending his hands, palms up in quandary.

  “Flipped me over with his boot. I was choking, gasping. Da glaring at me. Uncle Reggie looking stricken. ‘Never leave yourself vulnerable like that,’ my father said in a low voice. ‘Never be a slave to your comforts. Use the tools you have to warn you of danger.’”

  “Then I said something rude, like ‘go thirsty?’ and Uncle Reggie thumped my head.” Eloise demonstrated flicking her middle finger with her thumb. “Hurt plenty with his massive fingers,” she added, rubbing her head as if just thumped. “Da said ‘Use your tools. One, the horses.’” She held up a finger as her father had. “‘When they have thirst, they drink. All their effort is on satisfying their thirst. That’s where predators congregate, to catch the careless. Two, the dogs.’” She held up a second finger. “‘You keep guard while they drink.’ Uncle threw a rock in the bushes and the hounds took off. The horses looked up, alerting me. ‘After, you can kneel down like this.’ He knelt and used his hands to bring the water to his mouth. Thus, he could turn his head around and survey his surroundings.”

  Eloise paused, rubbing the back of her neck, remembering her injured pride, sore face and the pain her father’s boot had left on her neck.

  “That was a bit brutal,” Roland said as they prepared to leave. Eloise led Garth over to a rock and climbed into the saddle, revealing her fatigue. She exhaled, and nodded she was ready.

  “That’s what Uncle Reggie and I thought,” she said continuing the story. “He tried to make excuses for me. ‘She’s but a little girl,’ things like that.” She reflected. “But I have gratitude my father didn’t hold back because I was a little girl. I want my father to have pride in me, pride in the things I can do. He is hard and demanding. He causes such anger upon me, seems so unfair, part of the world that’s so unfair.” She wanted to scream at the injustice of it. “Enough of me. What about your father?” Eloise asked. “The Earl of Cardiffshire.”

  Roland was silent a good long time. “I haven’t seen my Lord Father the Earl in years. He remains in high standing with the King and has good health last I heard,” Roland said, giving no further elaboration about his father. “I have two elder brothers, William and Gilbert. Two elder sisters, Arabella and Diana. One younger brother, Alexander,” he added.

  “Arabella,” she moaned. “Another beautiful name. And Diana, the Huntress. Pleasure upon me. Fortune upon you, God has goodness to favour you with brothers and sisters,” said Eloise. Roland could hear her longing for siblings, and new warmth for his English kin.

  “Fortunate, you say? Fortunate, with two big sisters trying to dress you up and play doll with you when you’re a child! And with two big brothers who are always bigger and stronger and faster than you? Finally, a little brother comes along and you think you’ll have someone to be bigger, stronger and faster than, but I can’t, he’s the baby. ‘Help your baby brother, look out for your baby brother’” he imitated a high-pitched woman’s voice, grinning at the memory.

  “I haven’t the gift of brothers or sisters. Longing upon me for someone to share secrets with and complain about Mathair and Da with, someone with understanding,” she spurted out. “Cousins are not the same. Nor the numerous children fostered at Dahlquin.”

  “There’s a lot of fighting and squabbling goes on,” he offered.

  “There is great pressure being the only heir,” she said.

  “True, but if you’re not the eldest son, there’s naught but to leave and seek your own fortune, as they say. Daughters can be married off. It’s a great way to build strong allegiances,” he countered.

  “Married off? It’s not my wish to be married off. Dahlquin is my home. It’s a problem. Father has his ideas and-,” she cut herself short. “Then what about you?” she asked, changing the subject. “You ran away from home to avoid being a nursemaid?”

  “At seven years of age, after my mother died, my father sent me to my godfather, King John, to advance the family’s name at his court,” Roland answered, “thinking that would be the hardest training grounds of all,” he added with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “What?” Eloise exclaimed, nearly choking. “Your godfather was the King? Did you live in the White Tower?”

  “King John had many godchildren. All the nobility would seek the favour. Truly it’s not such an unusual distinction.”

  “Did you meet Queen Eleanor? Would she be your great godmother?”

  Before Roland could answer, Eloise went on.

  “The magnificent Eleanor of the rich and fertile Aquitaine, mother to King Richard the Lion-Hearted, King John, as well as the illustrious Marie of Champagne, kings and queens all of her children. Well, most of them.” Eleanor was a legend to many, and apparently her image loomed large for Eloise. Her words were lyrical. “A woman who led, a woman who planned her own destiny and still influenced thought years after her death.” Eloise glanced at him in wonderment, as if he had a hand in such a rich history. “And a contemporary of the blessed Hildegard of Bingen. “Oh, to have had an opportunity to converse with such knowledgeable and witty women,” Eloise said with a deep sigh, closing her eyes in reverence.

  At that moment he could envision her clean-scrubbed and well dressed, kneeling in adoration at the feet of a queen in a lavishly appointed chamber, with musicians and bards - or to be a queen herself.

  “Nay to all that. How old do you think I am?” he teased her, allowing some English to slip in.

  Disappointment faded, she chuckled. “How old are you?”

  “Three and twenty.”

  “You have earned much success!” she exclaimed. “So much to tell. What of King John? Were you his squire? What brought you to Ireland?”

  “So many questions,” Roland muttered, “where to start?”

  “Shall I ride faster to conjure your memory?” she asked, stroking Garth, acknowledging his efforts to keep moving.

  “King John had many pressing responsibilities. Imprudent of him to waste his time training his numerous godchildren with barons in revolt and a financial crisis, wouldn't you agree?”

  “History tells us those were difficult times,” she agreed.

  “Truly, I longed to be a knight. And my father was correct. It was the most difficult training possible. So many boys and young men, all wishing to achieve greatness before the King. So many distractions, temptations. Martial life is strict and rigorous. Disciplined.”

  Eloise nodded at him, indicating she well knew that word.

  “I met Val in the barns. I was mucking out stables as penance for some-” he hesitated, searching for a word.

  “Because you were brave and glorious?” she offered, her blue-grey eyes sparkling in complicity.

  “If you wish to embellish it so, I won’t dispute,” he chuckled, accepting her version. He squinted, his gaze resting on her a moment. “With your fair complexion, few freckles and amber hair, you could be Val's sister.” Then he smirked and continued with his story. “Val, being immune to the stench of muck, volunteered, offering his services,” Roland emphasized, “in exchange for additional time with the horses.”

  “The brother I should have had,” she smiled broadly, looking all the more like Val. “Was this in England or Ireland? And how is it Ireland came to be graced by your brave gloriousness?”

  What to tell, he didn’t know his feisty charge so well. King John was difficult, unpopular, and far too busy to deal with yet one more of his numerous godsons. Still young Roland dreamed that eventually he would become
a knight, and travel and do good deeds, and serve his king loyally and live happily ever after, or something like that.

  “I was twelve when I became a knight in training, a squire to Sir John from Exeter. At fourteen I was forfeit as ransom in a tournament,” he admitted despite the residual pain. “As a squire I came to High Lord FitzGilbert, of Leinster.” At first heart-broken and disillusioned to be abandoned by his godfather to Ireland, life in the Irish court proved much better than what he endured in England. “I was surprised by my acceptance at the Irish court. It was there I met Sedric and Guillaume, Val too, and our friendship formed.”

  “I see,” Eloise considered.

  Roland thought a sarcastic expression crossed her face as she studied him.

  “His own godson,” she murmured, her brow crossing. “Shame on King John!” she snapped. “And your father. That isn’t common practice.”

  Roland expected her to say something disparaging, but was warmed by her genuine concern, and outrage.

  “Happily, I’ve served Gerald FitzGilbert. He’s a strong and wise Lord,” Roland continued. “He’s been fair with me.” More so than his own family, he remembered. A year after coming to Ireland in 1216, nine-year old Henry III ascended the English throne. Uneasy about the politics of the Irish Kingdoms and their lack of regard towards England, Roland oft times found himself biting his English tongue, and rather than reprimand the treasonous, he listened and remembered.

  Eloise looked relieved to hear good of High Lord FitzGilbert, for this was a worry almost as great as the one she left behind.

  “I achieved knighthood by FitzGilbert’s own hand in my twentieth year. Now a small fief at Ashbury.” But he had never gotten there. “Enough of me, does your father ever seem disappointed that you were not a son?”

  “That is a rather…private question,” Eloise answered. They overtook some folks with a cart being pulled by a plodding ox. Roland and Eloise ceased all conversation until well out of hearing. Then glanced back for any sign of Tiomu’s men pursuing them. Eloise continued the conversation.

  “Well, of course. Everyone wants sons, to carry on the name, so much easier than one daughter,” she sighed, hating to be reminded of her disappointing status. “Still, my father has always been loving, and let me play with horses,” she brightened. Her shoulders slumped. “Fear upon me, I’m not a good daughter either,” she trailed off.

  “You’re a good daughter,” Roland countered.

  “I’m a terrible daughter. I’ve never wished to be a boy. But I don’t like all the restrictions, the confinement, the unfairness. I don’t believe that is what God intended. Oh, why am I telling you this?”

  Lay people were not to interpret God’s word, but he was curious what more she might have to share. “What do you believe God intended?” he asked, hoping she would continue.

  “Not for women to be chattel. We’re not cows!” she blurted, discretion overcome.

  “That’s blasphemy, you know,” Roland stated, taking this reasoning to the next level. She wasn’t a cow…but that was the way of it. No scholar, Roland did have some recollection of theology and logic. She was easily provoked, eager to talk, with a passion that begged aqua vitae to match the strength.

  “Didn’t Jesus question the need for so many laws?” she asked. “What of the Good Samaritan? Shouldn’t kindness prevail over rhetoric? Argh!”

  “What?” asked Roland, perplexed. What had the Good Samaritan to do with whiskey, passion or blasphemy? Cattle, or was it chattel? Rhetoric? “Wait!”

  “I read the scriptures. I study and think but when I ask questions-” Her face was tight and her thin lips had lost the rosy blush of previously imagined fruit wine or the glow of whiskey. “There is much inconsistency in the scriptures. Infallible I’m told. Vague passages open to interpretation. Don’t question I’m told.”

  Roland closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Where had all this come from? Aye, the Church, the Word of God was infallible. It was God speaking after all.

  “The Good Samaritan,” she said, looking exasperated. “Surely you know this.”

  Roland couldn’t nod his understanding fast enough, so she continued the lesson.

  “Though the Samaritans were enemies to God’s people, infidels laboring on the Sabbath-”

  “Aye,” Roland said fanning his hands to indicate he knew the story. Had he ever heard anyone converse so fast, every word articulated so he couldn’t not hear even if wanted to? His weary head ached with the weight of thinking so hard under these grueling circumstances. He stroked his sweaty horse, seeking some commiseration.

  “Mean spirited people, men of the infallible Church, make a mockery of God’s words and the sacred teachings of our Savior Jesus Christ. Such kindness and wisdom from the Son of God.”

  She paused and Roland saw she had tears in her eyes. Was he hearing her correctly? Disputing the Church? These could be interpreted as the words of a heretic. Is that why his head throbbed so? As punishment?

  Roland waited for her to finish. At the least he expected an apology. Instead she continued to stare at him, as he did her.

  “Are you quite finished?” he ventured to ask. His head ached, his mind spun and he couldn’t fathom what she meant or why she had come to be so angry. She pulled her wooden cross out from under her surcoat and slowly crossed herself.

  “Jesus was crucified for breaking laws that men created,” she continued, “laws that went against God. This very day-” Eloise looked around, taking in the partial clouds and masked sun of the Irish sky, the soft ground and verdant land before them. She was born of this glorious and contradictory land; which Roland was just learning to appreciate. “This day is a gift from God,” she said with a dewy-eyed warmth that belied their terrible circumstance and that of Connacht. “Yet we’re unable-” She inhaled with a gasp, cross still in her hand.

  Eloise didn’t want to talk anymore. Blasphemy was an act against God, not the false interpreters of the church. God’s laws were simple: Ten Commandments of honorable living. Do to others as you would have them do to you. Once again, the anger over the injustices burned her soul. Not now, she told herself. Her parents, kinsfolk and home were in peril and she had miles to go to accomplish her goal. Garth lunged forward as she urged him to pick up the pace. She was leaving Connacht, for the first time in many years.

  MEATH, 11th of June

  Athlone Castle was a daunting obstacle, with its decagonal tower standing guard. Under different circumstances, it might have been a delightful opportunity to visit and rest and feast with these eastern Connacht cousins. Eloise hadn’t been to Athlone in ages, not since she was five years old, returning home from the ill-fated tournament and the disastrous confrontation with Lord Elroth FitzGilbert, High Lord FitzGilbert’s brother. She and Roland would pay a toll to cross the bridge over the Shannon River, in this case Tuath's knife, and then Eloise would be in Meath, the home of Lord Bryan FitzGilbert, the aggrieved son of Lord Elroth, nephew of High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert. She was the aggrieved innocent victim, but none seemed to recall that part of the heinous saga.

  Eloise would depend on Roland not only for protection, but to know where they were going. Everything from this point forward was unfamiliar and of greater threat because she was lost.

  The mighty Shannon River, which the Vikings had used to raid and devastate Ireland centuries past, served as a natural demarcation between Connacht and the subdued east. She looked over the side at the grey water flowing rapidly to Munster, and farther south out to sea mingling with the salt water and mayhap washing up on the shore of Santiago, Spain. Or falling off the world entirely, for there was naught but the end of the world to the west.

  “Well,” she said, as the horses noisily exited the busy bridge, “a relief there isn’t an armed guard patrolling Meath.”

  “Of course not, Lord Bryan is lord of New Pembrokeshire, not all Meath. We’ll pass through soon enough. My men and I were guests of the Lord some three weeks past.” He seemed to be ca
lculating how long it had been. “He’s loyal to Ireland.”

  “Loyal to Ireland, but not to me,” she said curtly. “Our fathers disagreed.”

  “Disagreement, is that what you call it in Connacht?” Roland snorted. All Ireland knew of the scandalous event.

  “Ho!” Eloise called out. She pulled an arrow and nocked. Uncle Reggie’s shield on her back was awkward, but she adjusted her draw and tracked a rabbit as it scampered across the road. The rabbit was gone in a moment, and she let down.

  “You have much skill with that?” Roland asked, hope rising in his voice. Rabbits were usually caught by snares or traps or blunts, not the broad head she had drawn.

  “With the Goddess’s blessing, I don’t believe we’ll starve,” she answered.

  “Don’t like rabbit?” he questioned.

  “I do, but it wasn’t a clean shot.”

  “This isn’t a tournament! Just slow the vermin down.”

  Eloise looked at him aghast.

  “Is there such hunger upon you that you could ignore the squeals of agony? It would ruin my appetite.”

  “It was a rabbit. And our dinner,” Roland responded, equally aghast. “Nothing more.”

  “Even a rabbit deserves a quick death. Is it not one of God’s own humble creatures?”

  “God’s humble offering for our meal. Would you turn down what God has set before you?” Roland could play this religious game of piety and devotion.

  “I would strike down a reasonable beast for our dinner, but only by a clean shot.”