Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Eloise looked at him, his cheeks, his nose, and his lips. Under the nose and around the side of the mouth were always difficult. The skin was pliable and soft. The cheeks were easy, and under the chin.

  Negotiating the Adam’s apple was also treacherous territory. “Try not to swallow,” Eloise said, before taking a deep breath and renewing her task.

  Roland held his breath without realizing it. He shut his eyes so tightly they formed tears. His chest was pounding to match the surge in his groin. Then it was too much. He grabbed her wrist pulling her hand and the blade away.

  “Did I hurt you?” Eloise asked in alarm, turning her attention back to his throat, looking for blood. Nothing. Still he held her wrist, so she continued to search.

  “You didn’t cut me, yet,” he commented. “Sorry,” he said, falling back on English. “Take my excuse, and blessing upon you,” She hadn’t cut him, and he was embarrassed he had lost his nerve. What happened, he wondered? She was no threat, the shave had been going well. Brewing emotions inside him needed an outlet. He had to break the physical bond between them, if only for a moment. He needed to breathe.

  “I’m almost done, I promise,” she said looking him in the eye. She smiled broadly, and then touched her fat lip. It must hurt, Roland smiled back as best he could with a blade about to return to his throat. They shared the smile for a few seconds.

  Roland watched as Eloise seemed to wilt. Her smile quavered as her trembling lips came together. No amount of dirt could mask the brilliant flush that erupted from her cheeks and spread across her face. She swallowed then looked away. Lowering her hand with the dagger, she took a deep breath. Eyes closed she took another deep breath. He watched her press her hand and the dagger hard to her heart, as if suppressing a flutter. Or a pounding. She sucked in her bottom lip, opened her eyes and with a determined breath lifted her hands to continue the shave but her hands were shaking.

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured, wiping the dagger on the cloth before putting it in her teeth, then wiping her sweaty palms repeatedly on her surcoat. “I’ve had much practice,” she mumbled before removing the dagger from her teeth. “Easy work, under the chin,” she added, her attention turned to his neck.

  Tilting his head back, Roland tried to convey ease and trust, allowing Eloise to come close again.

  With only a few nicks and cuts, she was finished. It was a shave like no other, and he felt renewed. He sensed everyone watching, waiting for his verdict. Enjoying the suspense, he continued to examine his skin, feeling the tension build. Peeking out of the corner of his eye, he watched to see if Eloise was anxious. She had started to clean her dagger, but now stood as transfixed as the farmer’s family, staring as he gently massaged his face in utter absorption. It pleased him to see her concern, to think her heart might flutter to match his own. What is she doing to me? God’s blood, I sound like a fucking troubadour. By your will, take my excuse, he thought, apologizing in Irish for his profanity in his fluttering heart. Tension suitably built, he lowered his hands with great care and looked around at all the faces of the farmer’s family and finally at his page.

  “You missed a spot, start over,” he said.

  “By your command, my Lord,” Eloise said with a quaver in her voice. He observed her tentative steps, waiting as she bent over his face. Again, she was close, met his eyes and he surprised her with a wink and large smile.

  Eloise grinned, sucked in her fat lip then narrowed her eyes, realizing she was being teased.

  “It’s quite satisfactory, mayhap the best shave I’ve ever had outside a-” he caught himself before he said something inappropriate.

  “Outside a where?” Eloise asked, her voice a bit shrill.

  Roland shook his head, saying nothing. The dying fire glowed.

  Eloise shook a reprimanding finger at him.

  Duckling spread the damp apron to dry by the hearth. Eoin ordered the yawning boys to bed.

  “With your will, take my excuse, my Lord,” Eloise said, dipping her head. “Might I take a moment, the need is upon me,” she paused. “To check the horses.”

  “Indeed,” Roland acknowledged, knowing she needed to relieve herself, but would check the horses as well.

  She nodded and strode off, vanishing silently into the gloaming.

  “Oh! Must tell Branagan, our guests are sleeping here and there will be horses about,” Eoin said, clambering up from the bench the family had shared.

  Eoin startled, stood still in his tracks. Roland turned expecting to see Eloise. Instead he saw dark figures, armed with pitch forks, clubs and scythes encircling them. Roland stood slowly, straining to see the men, count their numbers. Rather than hard-working farmers, bent by generations of labor and servitude, Roland faced a bulwark of well-armed belligerence. He let his breath out slowly, his taut fingers yearning to reach for El Muerte Rojo, his sword. That would be too aggressive. Hostile.

  “Eoin, the hour is late. Are you safe?” a man asked. He was short, and slightly built, but his voice was a croaking, deep bass. As with Eoin’s speech, Roland found their dialect difficult to understand.

  “Branagan,” Eoin said, “I was just coming to you.”

  “Who is this? What goes on?”

  “Didn’t my children tell you?” Eoin asked. “A knight and servant, two horses,” Eoin added quickly.

  “Smells like cooking,” another man grumbled.

  Roland waited for the conversation to resume. He couldn’t see the farmers’ faces but could read their posture and their arms. Farm implements turned to weapons. He had been trained to see the use of such tools as weapons. He was a warrior. They were farmers. Focus. There was movement, shifting of weight. Some of the farmers were impatient too. Fuck. Where was Eloise?

  “We were cooking,” Eoin said, “they brought a heron, some greens to cook.”

  “I only see one man,” the short man said. He was scant enough, and the scythe he held gave him the appearance of death come to reap. Eloise was still out there, somewhere.

  “The boy is checking-”

  “Roland! Lord Roland,” Eloise shrieked.

  “Mother of God,” someone called.

  The farmers’ circle of menace broke with howls and grunts as a pale horse and rider cantered in.

  “Ah, may you all have goodness,” she said, looking around as the farmers gave her, or rather Garth, a wide passage. The horse was naked. Rather, Garth had no bridle or saddle, only an agitated rider. “Someone is out there,” she continued. “Maybe to steal the horses. Or your-” she glanced about the assembled farmers. “I heard someone,” she said directly to Roland.

  Roland drew his sword and dagger.

  “What?” someone asked.

  “Here?” another questioned.

  “I heard someone,” Eloise said over the questioning.

  Artoch whinnied for his friend. Roland could hear him moving as quickly as his hobbles would allow. Then quiet, apparently, Artoch decided Garth wasn’t so far and the eating was too good to leave.

  “Where?”

  “I hear nothing.”

  “Quiet,” Roland said, hearing the deep bass of the short farmer along with his own.

  “Out there,” she said pointing in the direction she had just come.

  “Shh,” Roland said, walking up to her and Garth, placing the hand with the dagger on her thigh. “Ho,” he murmured to both, scanning the dim horizon.

  “God be with you,” the short man called, “who is there?”

  Garth shook his head and snorted. Eloise stroked his neck. “Ho, good boy,” she murmured, encouraging the horse to stand quietly. He lifted his tail and dropped a few stud poops.

  “Who is there?” the farmer called again. “Answer me.”

  Roland didn’t think Eloise was one to spook easily.

  “If the boy says he heard someone, I believe him,” Roland said, calculating the situation. New horses might call out. Artoch and Garth were not presenting as if horses were approaching. Someone afoot; we
re it a raid, there was nothing to be gained in that field, the stock was in roost or sty. Must be a family member.

  “Come forward,” the farmer demanded. “Without harm.”

  “Probably one of the children, wanting to see the horses,” another farmer added, to chuckles and grumbles.

  “A child,” Eoin said with a groan. “Gerroc,” he sighed. Then, “Gerroc!” he shouted.

  Duckling protested, then shook her head, wringing her hands.

  Weak, crying voices stirred from the summer twilight.

  “Come forward, girls. Sooner the better. We ache with tired,” the short farmer said.

  Roland let his breath out as the rest of the men exhaled and lowered their tools. Three girls came trembling forward, maybe fourteen to ten years of age.

  Despite the rough dialect, Roland heard a slew of profanity, shocking and humorous at once. He glanced at Eloise, hoping she couldn’t understand it. She was watching Duckling, weeping and running to her girls.

  Roland felt all eyes on him.

  Once again, he and Eloise were the source of threat. Curse these farmers and their prying daughters. Farmer’s daughters. Those girls were children. Did he appear such a letch? Did Eloise? Bleeding saints, he was heart-pounding, blood-rushing tired. Fatigue and anger permeated his senses.

  “My page and I are,” no profanity he reminded himself, “tired from long miles and little food. Too f-frighteningly tried to raise a hand or cock against any of your children.” He was starting to shake as the battle-ready episode fell away. “Eoin, by your will, with your leave, and yours, Master Farmer,” Roland growled, for surely this short man was in charge. “El and I would like to rest - though sleep may elude me some time now. Does that sound good?”

  Given the pause before answering, Roland assumed the farmers were struggling with his dialect as well. He still had his weapons drawn; he placed sword to scabbard and sheathed the dagger. Surely it was over.

  “My Lord?” Eloise asked.

  “Shh,” he said, power was in silence - although he longed to order these insolent farmers to their beds. God’s blood.

  “That is good,” the Master Farmer said. “All of us, to our beds.”

  Some of the men hurried, others walked and mumbled among themselves.

  “Eoin, your girls should be safe enough, eh,” and the Master Farmer, too turned and walked away with an escort of three.

  The family retreated together to their hut; Roland and Eloise to their places in the dirt, under an oil-cloth canopy.

  Before Christ and the Virgin Mary he was exhausted. The encounter had charged his system. The fear, his vulnerability, the lesson learned: farmers were dangerous, and he would never be so arrogant again. It was hard to relax and find sleep. Chain mail wasn’t designed for pleasant slumber; it was cold and rough and unforgiving.

  That, and the proximity of the sleeping Maid Eloise. You are a lustful dog, he reminded himself. Don’t think about her, she’s just a page, remember, a young boy of twelve. It was useless. Despite that terribly unflattering costume, he could picture her without any of it. The blood surged effortlessly to his groin. His cock strained against his braises, engorged and pleading with his conscience for relief. It had been some time, at Scragmuir, since he’d lain with a woman, and thoughts of Eloise scorched his mind. Masturbation, so close to a pious, Christian maid such as Eloise? It was sinful enough to take one’s pleasure alone, but in the sleeping maid’s presence...nay. He groaned painfully and rolled on his side. This was all her fault.

  Fitful sleep eventually came to Roland. Dreams of lust and unfulfilled sex haunted him. Visions of farmers’ daughters, sometimes dressed as pages, wove through his mind. Would he have sex with all of them? Perhaps in a stable, a loft, in a garden? Nay, not with any of them, although in his dream they were willing. Eloise was naked and inviting him into a bathhouse to shave him, but she really didn’t plan to shave him he knew. Her father was there, and he got a shave. Roland was waiting behind a curtain, feeling guilty as sin, watching Eloise shave her father. Only she wasn’t naked now, only Roland with his sinful vision could see her naked. And it wasn’t a public bathhouse where people engaged in prostitution. Somewhere else, somewhere clean and pure.

  DAY FIVE OF THE SIEGE, 12th of June

  He woke painfully from his nonsense dream, with the warmth of Eloise curled up next to him. It was cold, and she must have been drawn to his warmth despite the chain mail. She twitched once, then twice and he felt the slump of her body weight as she returned to deep sleep next to him. Roland lay there, motionless. The agony and the ecstasy: the ecstasy of having Eloise so close, to feel her sleeping soundly in the security he provided her. Trusting, loving, soft and gentle. Surely, she felt something for him. He had found it in her eyes this evening. And then the agony. It seemed as if every fiber in his body was longing to embrace Eloise and make love to her without end. How at odds they were, his cock and his conscience. Think of something else, think of Sir Reginald’s haggard, ghostly countenance haunting you from the burning depths of Hell. Now there was a sobering thought. He tried to conjure his most nightmarish visions of the suffering and punishments bestowed in Hell: perpetual flames, plagues, blistering flesh, which grew back only to burn off again, anything to distract his mind from the relentless demands of his cock. He was hot. Hot with lust, passion and love. Was this the same heat that would await him in Hell?

  As the night sky slowly went from dark to subtle pink on the horizon, a new day promised to begin. Roland got up gently, so as not to wake Eloise. Maybe the new day would give him some relief from his hellish night. The air was still. As the horizon brightened, birds raised their joyous praise to the sun. Rabbits were barely visible at the edges of the cultivated fields. Their time was ending, and the next shift would resume their daily rituals and activities.

  The family in the farmhouse began to stir. The fire was stoked in preparation to break fast. The farmer hastily exited the door and Roland nodded in his direction. Roland went for the horses.

  Eloise slept dreamlessly on the ground. Garth bent his great head next to her sleeping form, smelled and blew out a large whiff of air. He nudged her with his muzzle. His whiskers tickled her nose and cheek and she brushed at her face. Not getting the response he wanted, he nudged her more aggressively and she waved her arm trying to send him away.

  “Stop” she murmured, barely audible.

  That was enough, Garth nickered into her face. Without opening her eyes, she grabbed at her horse.

  “Quiet, you great looby, it's the middle of night,” she said in a loud whisper. Garth was playfully dodging her hands with his muzzle and blowing out his nostrils.

  “Quiet, you’ll wake the master,” and she looked around to make sure Roland had not yet been disturbed. She could see fairly well, and he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Garth lifted his head and shook himself from head to tail.

  Eloise was disoriented for a moment. Instead of darkness, she found light. Artoch was tacked up and Roland was smiling down at her.

  “Good morn to you, sleepy one,” he said.

  Was that a devilish grin he had, she wondered?

  Eloise scrambled to her feet, rubbing her eyes. Her head throbbed with the sudden change from sound sleep to standing.

  “Shame upon me,” she stammered. “By your will, I must do that,” she continued, still rubbing her eyes and staggering in the morning light. “Sorrow upon me, my Lord. I will tack Garth.”

  “Relax,” he said, imitating her instructions to him while shaving last evening. That seemed a long time ago after the events of the night. “Lameness isn’t upon me, you know.” He gave Artoch some long strokes along his thick neck. The black destrier stood with one hind leg cocked, eyes half closed. Artoch wasn’t a pet, but he was a valued partner.

  Time to start another long day on the road to Gerald FitzGilbert. With dawn’s first light the siege would rage on. If it still raged at all. Don’t think of that. If Dahlquin fell, she would know.


  DAHLQUIN CASTLE, DAY FIVE OF THE SIEGE, 12th of June

  Aine and Hubert took a few moments to connect in her bedchamber. Her chamber alone had gone unmolested the nights before. Lord and Lady were infinitely busy with the endless and horrific demands of their castle under siege. Aine longed to re-establish some sense of normalcy and routine. All rhythms of castle life were dictated by military need. The great kitchens and ovens were again working. Old Muireann rose to the occasion, directing the bakers and oven stokers. It was by her orders that poultry was slaughtered, or salted beef or fish served. Thus, Aine was free to minister to the injured and direct the caregivers. Clearing the cinders or sweeping the floors now fell to cooks and bakers. Gone were the apprentices and child labor forces. Boys and girls alike were charged with supporting the military lines of defense. They ran to deliver fresh arrows and bolts to the bowmen. Bags and pitchers of water, ale and wine were carried to the thirsty defenders along the ramparts and in the towers. Fuel was in constant demand to maintain the fires and the hazardous cauldrons of hot oil or boiling water, which were kept ready to pour upon the invaders.

  Hubert held his wife tightly. She sobbed quietly in his arms. Dilis danced at their feet, vying for his mistress’ attention, while Hubert’s great hounds investigated the chamber, sniffing and probing.

  “Terrible thing, Love, such sorrow upon me,” he said to her gently.

  “Five children,” she sighed, “and a good man.”

  U’Neill’s mangonel had a successful hit upon the castle. A large stone crashed through one of the fire stations. It was such hazardous work, keeping the fires and oil. The cauldron cracked and tipped, spewing the boiling contents all over the children and man with them. As the oil splashed out, the fire spread wildly with it. Water was useless against such a blaze. It was contained with dirt and left to burn itself out on the stone walk. Fortune upon them, it didn’t spread to the wooden scaffolding or buildings below.