Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Roland took a long time before answering. Was he counting them up? How many were there? “Only the dice,” he said.

  She was quiet, unable to sort out her roiling emotions, as if all seven of the deadly sins had risen up within her. Certainly wrath, envy, pride and a hint of vanity. “How much farther?” she asked, returning to the urgency before her.

  “When they’re out of sight.”

  “How will I know if I don’t look back?”

  “I’ll know.”

  She believed him.

  FARM

  Confusion, fright and fatigue plagued Eloise as she rode, further aggravating her weary Garth.

  She glanced at Roland. Tall, commanding. He had acted smug back in New Pembrokeshire with Lord Bryan's men. But it was merely confident posturing. Fear had muddled her thinking. She had fear, and she acted with fear. Never reveal your feelings, her father's voice reprimanded her. And why had she not considered Roland might have any number of female attachments? She stole another glance at him, to find him impassively watching her. Their relationship had been so insular, existing first within the forced incarceration of the siege, then as two people, alone on the road, with a single mission: to warn High Lord FitzGilbert. Roland was from a world outside Connacht. Of course, he would have lady loves, wasn't that the term? She couldn't remember the words, only the idea, and she tensed again with confusion.

  Garth pinned his ears and Eloise felt his back tense under her seat as he transitioned to a walk, jarring her to the present and the road before them. Pay attention, she commanded herself, stroking Garth's neck. Uncle Reggie’s shield felt heavy as lead. Garth’s ears were still back and he took a few more stiff strides before settling down as she continued to stroke his thick neck. Such a magnificent fellow, she thought, how had she let her mind wander so?

  Garth lifted his head, ears fixed on the road before them.

  “Horses sense something,” Roland said. “Let’s hope it’s a friendly lodging.”

  “May such a blessing be upon us,” she said, but it sounded like a sigh. Garth emitted a similar sound, only longer and louder, causing her and Roland to laugh.

  Artoch bobbed his head in what could only be construed as adamant agreement.

  Both horses seemed to pick up the pace, sensing shelter and food and rest. Soon Eloise could make out structures.

  “Well, this looks promising,” Roland said, approaching a stone hut with wood and thatched roof. She doubted Roland could stand up inside the small structure.

  “God be with you!” he called to the man rushing towards them. Two boys joined the man and all three approached Roland warily.

  “God be with you, sirs,” the farmer said, bowing his head. Eloise noticed the older boy dragged his left foot.

  “Good evening,” Roland said. “I know the hour is late, past sundown. We’re in need of lodging. And cooking.” He looked at Eloise, and she held up the heron.

  It was near dark, and the family was already settled in for the night. Eloise knew she, Roland and the horses were an intrusion to the regularity of this family's lives. They could ill afford the luxury of lamp light or candles for any length of time.

  “If there’s room in the barn,” Roland continued, “that’s satisfactory for the horses and us.”

  Eloise sighed, slumping in the saddle, for that was exactly what she hoped for. It seemed the farmer slumped as well, but his mouth gaped open.

  “Barn? For horses?” the farmer asked. He shook his head. “Pig sty, chicken roost.”

  She and Roland both searched the grounds in the dim light, seeing only small stone and wood structures, huts, compost and the farmer’s stone and thatch hut. Outside the hut were a fire circle, tripod and cauldron.

  “Cook the bird,” Roland said, voice rising slightly, “while we see to the horses.”

  With a nod from their father, the boys ran over to take the heron from Eloise, and she passed them the roots and greens from her saddle bag as well. Their eyes glowed in the summer twilight. The younger boy was missing all four front teeth, as children his age did.

  “If you would, by your will,” Eloise addressed the farmer.

  Roland and the farmer stared at her. This wasn’t Dahlquin. Still both men waited for her to finish.

  “Would you have an extra pot to heat water?” she asked, watching the farmer shrivel. “If you have one,” she added, unsure why this was such a burden. “I only need a hand full,” and she held up her two hands, side by side to make a bowl.

  “Heat some water,” the farmer called to the boys.

  Both boys turned and answered, “Heat water, Da.”

  “My Lord,” she addressed Roland. His shoulders tightened, and he glared at her. “Might I inquire who our host is, and his lord?”

  Roland sat back in the saddle. She waited for him to agree. So tired, all she wanted to do was get out of the saddle and prepare for sleep. Still so much to do. He nodded.

  “Your name, by your will,” she asked the farmer.

  “Eoin,” the farmer said.

  “Who is your lord? Is the castle close?” As soon as she asked about the castle, she regretted it. They didn’t wish to present themselves to any noblemen. Fatigue dulled her mind.

  “Our Lord Bryan FitzGilbert. Castle is west as you came,” he pointed, “Not too close.” It was an amusing comment. Not too close.

  “You are very helpful, and this is a tidy farm. Your lord should be well pleased with you,” she added.

  “My Lord,” she addressed Roland, “this is Eoin of New Pembrokeshire.” Then to Eoin, “I’m El, and this is Lord Roland,” she said, holding her hand out, palm up towards Roland. She concluded with a tip of her head. If Roland wished to say more, he could.

  “May you have goodness,” Roland said. His voice was gruff, but he nodded his head to Eoin and her.

  “Let’s untack the horses and stow the gear here, then hobble them near the green,” Roland said, dismounting.

  Riding all day was one thing, but when Eloise dismounted, her legs were stiff and weak. As Roland spoke with Eoin about sleeping arrangements, she unfastened Artoch’s saddle.

  “Good boy,” she murmured. “Goodness upon you for your hard service this day.” Garth crowded in. “Back,” she said firmly, shaking an elbow at him as she reached up for the heavy saddle. “Back.”

  “Step,” Roland said.

  Artoch swung his hip at Roland’s touch and the heavy saddle slid from his back. Eloise collapsed under the shifting weight. Her arrows clattered and she fell, awkwardly cradled in the shield on her back.

  “What happened?” Roland growled, lifting the saddle.

  Eloise rolled out of the shield and touched her lip with the back of her hand. It bled slightly. Besides a cut lip, she felt tightness in her chest and such longing for her mother. Roland was scowling at her.

  “Shame upon me, my Lord, seems great fatigue is upon me.” Eloise had embarrassment on top of everything else. Dahlquin should be strong, she remembered as she clambered to her feet.

  “Let me, from now on,” he said irritably as he laid the saddle down.

  “Take his head, I’ll get the saddle,” Roland instructed as they moved to Garth.

  “I always do Garth,” she protested.

  “Arguing with me?” he barked.

  Eloise looked at him, startled by his anger. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark crescents beneath emphasizing his irritability. He had removed his armored gauntlets and they were tucked in his stout leather girdle. Though his hands were unclenched, she knew they would make tremendous fists. Mayhap he was as tired of this facade as she. Eloise shook her head. She didn’t wish to argue with him.

  “Eh?” he asked, glaring at her as he lifted her saddle off.

  “I am not, Sire.”

  “Good,” he said, laying her saddle next to his. Roland started rubbing his horse down before checking the hooves. She did the same to Garth. “I was a squire once, myself,” he reminded her. This time he grimaced, but hi
s eyes softened, and the right side of his mouth twitched up. An attempted smile, she wondered? Eloise sighed, finding it difficult to smile herself. They walked the horses to a cistern, hobbled them, then removed their bridles.

  Garth and Artoch will benefit from a good rest, Eloise thought. She missed the company of Beast and Dragon. She had never travelled far without dogs, and once again realized how much she underestimated the security they provided her. Better company than hounds hardly existed. And hers were dead. Garth sighed, pulling Eloise from her grief. He followed Artoch's lead. dropping to his front knees then to his side to roll. She was thankful for Artoch's company, too. Some destriers were dangerous; a timid war-horse would never do. But Artoch was respectful and responsive and she was fond of him. As if reading her mind, Artoch ambled over to her, lowering his dirt-strewn head. Grateful for his approach, she scratched around his ears. Not to be left out, Garth poked his big grey muzzle in as well and Eloise stroked and scratched each horse around the eyes, the base of the ears and under their throats, cooing kindnesses to each.

  “Back to cooking,” Roland said, inclining his head toward the dwelling.

  Eloise went to the cistern, dunked her hands and scooped a handful of water towards her filthy face.

  “Leave it,” Roland said.

  Still bent over the cistern, water escaping through her clasped hands, Eloise looked up at Roland, who only shook his head. She glanced down at her wet, empty hands. Was it too much to expect? To splash away the dirt and sweat from the day’s travails, the blood on her lip, to revive herself before a meal and a night’s slumber? Her hands were trembling. With indecision? Frustration? Pride? Too tired to sort out her feelings, she dipped her hands again, rubbed them vigorously, stood and shook them dry as she went with Roland.

  She glowered at Roland, but he didn’t look at her as they walked in silence to the dwelling. Not silence; they didn't speak, but Roland's spurs chinked with each large step.

  The boys had made quick work of plucking the heron and already the bird was sectioned and stewing. A woman stood over the cauldron stirring. A hut this size in Dahlquin would support a much larger family or community. Where were the rest? Tending a flock? Farmers didn’t serve scutage. Roland scanned the surrounds intently. Mayhap he was thinking as she - where was everyone?

  There was something very suspicious about these people. Betraying her might bring a tidy benefit for them, and it roused her from the grinding fatigue she felt leaving the horses. At a distance she could pass for a youth, but not in such tight proximity around the fire, so she kept her head down, hoping no one looked too closely in the dim light. The filth of the miles aided her disguise. Leave it. Grudgingly she had to admit Roland was right.

  The farmer jumped up and indicated Roland take his stool by the fire. Roland nodded.

  The aroma of the cooking bird invaded Eloise’s senses. As if to honor the upcoming feast her stomach squeaked and gurgled. Embarrassed to have all eyes upon her, she clamped one hand to her mouth and the other on her offending belly.

  “I agree,” Roland quipped, taking the farmer’s stool by the cooking fire. He inhaled deeply, momentarily closing his eyes, also savoring the hearty aroma.

  “Let me start again,” Roland said, looking at Eoin, then to the family. “My name is Roland, from Ashbury-at-March. That is Connacht, well west of here. This is El. We’re weary travelers bound for Leinster. We’ll be gone with morning’s light. I wish goodness upon you for this hospitality. We have much gratitude.”

  The farmer, his wife and the boys all stared at Roland a good long moment. The wife was first to turn away, back to the steaming cauldron and pot before her.

  “Eoin,” the farmer said. “Small Eoin, Red,” indicating the boys. “Duckling,” nodding towards his wife.

  Eloise was still blushing as Duckling put a cup of steaming broth into Roland's hands, then hers. Duckling was a metaphor in song and poetry for a woman’s most intimate anatomy. Was that her real name, Eloise wondered?

  “May you have goodness,” she said holding the cup to her mouth, letting the steam bathe her filthy face, the moist aroma filling her nostrils, expanding her lungs. Her mouth watered with anticipated nourishment.

  “Eoin,” Roland said, “By your will and mine, join us.”

  Wide eyed, Eoin stared.

  “Share,” Roland said holding his cup up to the stunned farmer. Then he nodded at the confused wife, Duckling. “We haven’t money,” Roland added shaking his head. “I can’t pay for the lodging or peat. But I can share.”

  The boys giggled and squirmed, unbelievable joy written on their grubby faces.

  Once the heron chunks were tender, Duckling ladled the stew into Roland's and Eloise’s empty cups, and then into cups for her family.

  When she brought out stale bread, Roland soaked his in the broth. Eloise set hers in her lap.

  Eoin shook his head, declining for him and the boys. “Morning will bring hungry bellies, save it,” he muttered, mouth full of heron stew.

  Just what Eloise was thinking: this dry bread would go a long way come morning, unless the rats got to it while she slept. Oh how good it would be soaked in the broth as Roland was doing. Hot and soggy and delicious, the bread was better than she imagined. Let the rats wake to hunger.

  Done eating, Eloise went to the hearth.

  “Water's nice and hot,” Eloise commented, standing to move it from the embers. “I need a towel, or rag, wool or linen scraps. About this big,” she said, holding her hands up and about shoulder width.

  Duckling jumped up, eyes blinking, thinking hard.

  “Just to wet, I won't keep it,” she said. “A tunic, scarf? It may be dry by morning. And a spot of grease,” she added, knowing lotion was an unlikely luxury here.

  Duckling hesitantly produced another apron, stained and holey, but not entirely filthy.

  “Blessings upon us both!” Eloise said, removing her dagger from her calf sheath. “Two aprons! Good fortune.”

  Duckling nearly choked, sucking in her breath, hands nervously wiping down the front of her own stained, wet apron.

  Squatting, Eloise dunked half the apron in the steaming water. using a corner to wipe down her dagger, wondering why her compliment caused such distress. Was the apron stolen? Had its owner recently died? She looked up and realized that everyone was studying her. Roland too. She set her dagger down. Then she wrapped the steaming wet apron in the dry half, equilibrating the heat and damp in rapid movement so she didn’t scald her hands.

  “Lord Roland,” she started, “the days have been hard fought, and the miles long.” She walked to him with the steaming apron. “Put your head back,” she said.

  Roland gave her a wary look.

  “You, Sir, are in need of a shave.”

  “You’re too young to shave, what do you know of it?” Roland asked with jest and concern in his voice.

  “I shave my father all the time,” she answered.

  “I’ve seen your father, he’s bald,” said Roland covering his hair with his hands, mimicking a look of fear.

  The family members giggled sheepishly, then more fully when Roland joined in with them. It seemed the family had begun to relax a little more, finally accepting that she and Roland were not a threat to them. “Honesty, I have skill,” she said encouragingly.

  “And pleasure is upon me bearded. Boyhood behind me.”

  “Comfort upon you,” she said. “Just this once, I’ve never seen your face,” she whispered.

  Again, Roland stared, but she thought he was relenting. “Head back,” she said, gently applying the steaming apron to his face, patting it to his skin and his bristly beard.

  Roland stiffened in anticipation of being burned. His worry lines eased; gratitude was upon Eloise when she felt him relax in her hands. She continued to massage his face under the hot apron. Once cool, she removed the apron.

  At first Roland kept his eyes tightly shut. Eloise was uncomfortably close and had a dagger in her hand. Shaving
was never particularly fun or comfortable, but she did have a steady hand, gentle, too. He peered through the slits of his eyelids to watch her. With a mere trace of grease from the tub near the hearth, her sharp dagger moved firmly along his left cheek. Without hesitation, she started right in front of his left ear and systematically took strokes one after the other to remove his black beard.

  “Relax,” she said without taking her eyes off his cheek. She wiped the blade on a corner of the apron and continued. Smoothly over the contour of his cheekbone then slowly down to his chin, stopping just above the jawbone. Roland kept his left eye shut tight as she inched mercilessly close under it. From his vantage point the blade seemed rather long for the task at hand.

  “Stick your tongue under your lip, here,” she instructed, delicately dabbing the upper corner between his lip and nose. This created a much flatter surface for safety and thoroughness.

  “May goodness be upon you, my Lord.” She continued ever so carefully around his lips, under the bridge of his nose. This was getting more intimate than Roland expected and involuntarily he stiffened again. With a confident grip, she gently moved his head slightly up or down, right or left, enhancing her view in the limited hearth light.

  So close. He felt her breath on the sensitive areas of his face. The flesh on his ears tingled. Next his eyelids. The cold of the blade scraping against his flesh was unsettling. He felt vulnerable. The warm, titillating sensation of her breath caressing his head confused his senses. A tingle started at the base of his skull and shot down his spine. Without warning he shuddered like a dog shaking off water.

  “That was close,” his barber replied, still intent on her work. “Move your tongue here. With your gracious will,” she added.

  Her features were tight with concentration as she carefully started on his jaw. This was always difficult, little matter who did the shaving. A nick and a pinch. Roland tried not to flinch. A little more, just a little more. He let out a sigh of relief when she finished. But then she repeated the procedure, getting the places showing stubborn stubble.