Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “Tragic what happened to the children.” She wept.

  “Terrible,” he comforted her again. “Nothing to be done, it happened. Tiomu will pay. I promise you that.” Tiomoid U’Neill and his men would pay dearly for this treasonous attack, in this life and the next. Whether by Hubert’s hand or God’s, justice would be done. “I bring news, horrific and hopeful.”

  “News, by your will,” Aine said. She struggled to stifle the sobs. Time to be strong, time to move on.

  Hubert paused, unable to speak, his mouth was paralyzed by the sorrowful words he could not yet form. The image of his beloved brother, staked out like a martyred saint turned to carrion.

  “By your will, try and be strong - for me,” he asked, his eyes filling with tears. Tears of biblical proportion would one day be shed, when Tiomu was terminated.

  Aine nodded, her own red eyes again filling with a flood of tears.

  “As we suspected, Reggie is dead. Tiomu has committed another act of unforgivable-” he paused, there wasn’t a word. “His and two other bodies are staked out. War trophies. “Eloise and Roland have escaped, confidence upon me, it’s true,” he said.

  “Oh, Hubert!” she exclaimed. He read such hope in her green eyes. Still she ignored the little dog dancing on his hind legs at her hem.

  “Tiomu claims all three of our men were killed. Three men,” he emphasized again. Aine looked puzzled. “He’s lying. If he’d taken or killed Ellie, he’d be bragging. They got away. He hasn’t an idea what he’s lost,” Hubert said.

  “I see,” Aine agreed. Eloise would be a prize indeed, alive or dead. If they had her, he would flaunt it before all. Aine crossed herself twice and gave a prayer of thanks. She cried anew, but with tears of gratitude. Worry over Eloise was foremost on both their minds. Without their daughter…without question, they still had purpose. They were Dahlquin. Dahlquin would stand. This was their duty. Eloise.

  “FitzGilbert will know. How are the food stores?” he changed the topic back to their current dilemma.

  “Lean, it’s the growing season now.” How far did Tiomu’s assault extend? All depended on the livestock and game in this impoverished time. Pantries were near empty after the long winter, crops were not yet mature nor harvested. Fields lay fallow and untended. Hunting couldn’t be done, and all the while, Tiomoid and his men devoured the countryside. “Muireann, Uilliam and I have reviewed the pantries. It’s noted below.” Everything was documented in ledgers and kept by the Seanascal and stewards. “By memory, with starvation rations, four or five months.”

  “Barring accidents or contamination,” he added.

  “Things change. But now, we can manage. It’s herbs and medicines we lack.” They had already depleted most of their stores of such necessary items. “Each day I strip what leaves and shoots I find in the garden. But little remains. Prayers we have in abundance. I think God will understand that we offer prayers and devotions through the assorted fires we keep ablaze and save the candles for the sick and dying.”

  Hubert hugged his wife again. “So pious and practical you are. Such patience, for me and-,” he didn’t finish. His eyes teared. He squeezed them shut and kissed the top of Aine’s head. She hugged him all the tighter. Dilis jumped on her bed, hoping to get her attention by elevating himself. His little pink tongue dangled.

  “I miss her too,” she consoled. Aine would have said more, but to utter the words, even Eloise’s name would untether her fear and dread for their daughter’s unknown fate. Aine knew she would be overcome and unable to fulfill her duty. She must not falter. She dare not mention Eloise or Reggie. Hubert must be sheltered from these feelings or he would be unable to protect and serve Dahlquin.

  “How do you know?” Hubert murmured. “Oft seems you read my mind.”

  “And you mine,” Aine murmured back as Hubert scooped up the little dog and handed it over to Aine. Aine took Dilis in one arm. She continued to hold Hubert with the other. Dilis tried to lick both faces while held in the embrace.

  Hubert kissed Aine on her forehead, her nose and then so tenderly on her lips. They lingered there together, eyes closed, enjoying the bond. Maybe tonight they could be together, mayhap.

  Hand on hand they returned below stairs. Hubert with hounds in tow, was off to the Great Hall to check on the status of his men, Aine to the infirmary. He kissed the back of her hand in farewell as they separated. In turn, she took his calloused sword hand, with finger joints thick and gnarled. How many times had she relocated or set his mighty fingers? She lifted the beloved hand to her lips and open-mouthed, kissed his palm. Custos. Familiar fingers closed gently on her face. Aine could barely draw breath.

  She wiped grateful tears from her eyes as she left for the infirmary. Again and again she thanked God for granting her such a noble husband, and prayed for his renewed strength and vigor to see them through this terrible trial. Dahlquin would prevail, God would be their witness.

  Hubert watched his wife’s retreating figure. Lifting his hand to wave, instead he pressed his palm, the palm his good wife had just kissed, to his own face, inhaling deeply, praying he might yet retain her presence.

  “My Lord,” Ulliam said, stroking the hounds. “My apologies to intrude, Sire.”

  “What news?” Hubert called to Ulliam. It was time for an update.

  “News has not changed. One mangonel, and lucky they are,” Ulliam conceded. All of Dahlquin suffered the endless battering to castle and flesh, from a wood and sinew beast that hurled rocks and flaming carrion upon the defenders with wicked precision hour after hour. “They continue with the siege towers.”

  “Any more men? Or supplies?” Hubert asked pointedly, as he directed them to the armory.

  “None, Sire, Ashbury stands,” Ulliam added. Had Ashbury fallen, Tiomoid would have all his resources stacked against Dahlquin.

  “Good man, Albert!” Hubert shouted in the direction of his neighbor a half day away in Ashbury. “And Scragmuir? Do they show their faces?”

  “They do not. Mayhap they assist Ashbury. Mayhap they’re holed up and hiding,” Ulliam scoffed. “Scragmuir does not stand with Tiomoid U’Neill. Not yet.”

  “Nor does Tiomu fly the flag of Denmark or Norway. Speaks only for himself and his men. Thieving bastards!” Hubert exclaimed.

  “Aren’t we all,” Ulliam concluded. “Aren’t we all.”

  MEATH, ON THE ROAD TO FITZGILBERT, 12th of June

  The second morning and again Roland and Eloise would conduct their own compulsory mass without benefit of priest or chapel. Unlike the previous day, they would break fast before breaking camp. Eloise knelt, held her wooden cross pendant and bowed her head. Roland kneeled close before her, startling her with his proximity.

  “Heavenly Father,” Roland started, bowing his head so it nearly rested on hers. Good Lord she was short. Her cap tickled his nose. “Jesus the Redeemer.” He took both her hands in his, the cross pendant cradled within. Her breath came short and quick, but she didn’t pull her hands away. Rather, she seemed to ease into him, and he clasped his fingers together encasing her hands with only the leather thong visible.

  “We raise our voice in prayer and give thanks for another morning in service to you, Ireland and your people. I’m especially grateful for the meal we’re about to receive.” He gave Eloise’s hands a squeeze. “Blessing and gratitude for the entertaining turn of events whereby the hungry farm boy’s snared rabbit, stolen by the crafty fox, was outwitted by the sure-shot of my travel companion who would do a Welsh long bowman proud. Blessed be the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed them and then used them to make the sign of the cross. One time. Two times. Three times at which point he was holding Eloise up. Though she never took her gaze from his, she appeared to be melting into a heap at his knees.

  “I must confess to my gluttony,” he continued speaking directly to Eloise, not God. “I’m not easily sated. By flesh or wine.” Her blue-grey eyes widened, but her ga
ze didn’t waver. God’s eyes, what am I doing? Teasing her in the guise of a mass? He exhaled and grinned. “Six boiled eggs, an onion and stale bread does not seem an equitable trade for a rabbit and fox.”

  He rested back on his heels, still holding firm to her hands, pulling her slightly towards him.

  “If you wish to wait for the rabbit to be cooked, my Lord-” she spoke softly, swallowing hard.

  With deliberate ease, he released his grip on her hands, and she, too, rested on her heels. “Same with the fox pelt. It will take hours we don’t have.”

  “Let’s break fast,” he said reaching for the food and dividing it between them.

  Eloise drew her eating knife and cut the onion in quarters. He watched her cringe as she scraped the rat-chewed edges off the bread. He divided the food in half.

  “Sire, that is too much,” she said as she placed an egg, most of her onion and half her biscuit back with his.

  “It would please me more to see you eat. Now take it,” he said, peeling his first egg. Eloise waited as he peeled a slice of onion and bit into his egg and the onion.

  Eloise did the same. “Oh, it’s still warm,” she squealed, her eyes closed in delight as she enjoyed her first of the three eggs.

  “If only someone had coughed up some ale,” he said, “to wash this all down. Ah well,” he added, not wanting to seem ungrateful. He felt a shudder, remembering the ferocity of the farmers the previous night, and his and Eloise’s vulnerability. Fucking helpless.

  “We’re making incredible time to Leinster. I believe we’ll cross the Bog of Allen this very day. Long, and open, without cover. And only the one bow between us,” he commented.

  “You think Tiomu’s men will catch us on the Bog?” she asked. “That’s terrifying.”

  “Well, I can’t believe we’ve come so far, in what, two days? But if we can do it, so can they. Trading out for fresh mounts, maybe.”

  With every crumb ingested, they began their third day of riding. Usually, it took a week or more to get from FitzGilbert’s castle in Leinster to Dahlquin. They were easily more than halfway, Roland calculated to himself. Eloise set a grueling pace, and only pride forced him to keep up without complaint. A taskmistress, that one, he thought watching her in the saddle. What power did she wield upon the horses? They did not perish from exhaustion but continued on stronger every day.

  Dear sweet God in heaven, had it only been four days? His aching muscles told him it had been at least that long. Fighting his way into the castle, only to be engaged in a pitched battle well past sundown. A ridiculous escape. Jumping off a waterfall and nearly drowning or being crushed under the hooves of his horse. Riding throughout the night, cold, wet. Biggest fucking wolves in the world. What a turn of events this had been.

  “Ho,” she murmured, signaling with her arm. Roland saw fields in cultivation, workers in the distance.

  “Treasure,” she whispered, taking her bow and a handful of arrows.

  He heard a ding, a squeal, another ding, a scud. He saw mud, fur and arrows. Eloise stroked Garth, cooing to her horse. Then she smiled at him, dismounted and collected three hares and her arrows. She blessed each hare, kissed all four arrows before returning them to her quiver.

  Roland dismounted to help her gut the hares. Bleeding Saints, who shoots hares with arrows? Once again, they mounted and continued with another meal or barter on her saddle bags.

  Eloise and Roland passed through some townships and villages, and large acres in cultivation. More travelers were on the roads; Eloise tried to remember when she had seen so much traffic. The jangle and clang of pots and kettles preceded the iron merchant. A richly dressed cleric on a fine white palfrey strode past, with his entourage, their heads held high, as if fearing they might behold a commoner, or, worse inhale the malodourous air surrounding the lesser beings of God’s creation. Later five monks clad in their rough, brown robes walked by. One led a well-laden donkey. An elderly monk had a staff and limped briskly with the others. A fabric merchant sat on the bench of his wagon. Three children sat in the back, their bare feet dangling. “How much longer, Da?” one called out.

  “Last year I saw my sister, Lady Arabella and her husband, Lord Reynald of South Cross,” Roland said. ,

  His comment brought her out of her observations.

  “Another beautiful name,” Eloise commented. “That and Ariana,” she sighed.

  “It is,” he agreed. “And four nephews and nieces,” he continued.

  Nieces and nephews, wouldn't that be grand, Eloise reflected and her mind drifted to her family. She thought she heard Roland say something about wooden swords and she pictured herself with her father and Uncle Reggie teaching her swordplay and weaponry. This was vital knowledge for the lady of a manor during the frequent absences of her lord (whether father or husband). Knife play, however, is what they taught her in earnest. Hubert and Reginald drilled her in hand-to-hand combat with a dagger. From a young age, Eloise learned the vulnerable points to target, the same vital points her mother taught her to repair.

  “Da,” she had complained, “it’s useless use against mail or tough leather.”

  “It’s not a tournament you train for,” her father said, thumping her head. “A man does not wear mail or leather over his eyes. If he does, he’s little threat to you. Now pay attention.” And another drill would commence.

  “Da, you’re too close.”

  “Close is when you’re dangerous. You won’t get a second chance, Ellie.”

  He shoved and tossed her around, getting her riled. She hated this game most of all. It seemed hopeless.

  Instinctively she touched Cara, pressing the bow against her chest, knowing the security archery afforded her from a safer distance. This lesson had been twofold. She would always be smaller and weaker. But she had resources, she had weapons. Never stop looking for opportunities, her father and uncle instructed. Think. Eyes, nose, “cut his ballocks off, Ellie,” Reggie had cheered once. “If he is man enough to show them, take them.”

  Startled from her memory, she glanced over at Roland. Was he such a man? Would she be called upon to use a dagger on him? Up until now, she had worried only about the perils behind her, and the dangers ahead. Roland had been neither of those. Last night, that had been special, hadn’t it? And at mass - had she imagined that too? She tried to study him, without detection.

  “Is hunger upon you?” he asked. “Wish to rest?”

  “I have hunger, but,” she stammered. “I don’t wish to rest, God’s goodness upon you, Lord. With God’s and Mary’s goodness, let’s ride. Every minute is precious to me.” Eloise pushed Garth on without looking back.

  “The horses will need water and rest soon enough.”

  Each moment that passed was vital to the safety of Ireland. Eloise knew and believed Roland, too, felt it, like a black cloud that blocked all light and joy. For every mile they put behind them, more loomed ahead without end. Roland squeezed his shoulders back as if willing his tired muscles to relax, she thought, doing the same, but the oppressive burden remained. Neither this day nor their journey was over. The vast, unforgiving Bog of Allen, without protection or cover, still loomed.

  “How is it you’re not married at seventeen?” he asked.

  She had to blink and clear her mind. Where had this question come from? “You know I was betrothed?” she asked, surely he knew that being from Leinster. “As if being married off at the moment of my birth, can you imagine such a thing?”

  “It was a great honor. The firstborn of FitzGilbert of Leinster,” Roland offered.

  “We were babes,” she tried to explain.

  “You weren’t thrown into the cradle with him!” Roland exclaimed. “It’s unusual, though, and sounds as if the King wasn’t consulted,” he added, looking at her more pointedly. “Your parents entered a contract of marriage and title without the King’s consent?”

  “My Lord-,” she said, wondering how he could be so uninformed. Well, he was from England after all, and Le
inster was…not Connacht. Old Irish law prescribed that neither man nor woman be forced to marry against their will. This was a civilized and Christian view, crudely overlooked by avaricious kingdoms. “Estate and title,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “What if I didn’t want to marry him, what if he was awful?” she asked with a frown. Didn’t Roland see the damage in this? She sighed. “How cruel of me to talk so of the deceased,” she added, for surely it would bring bad fortune. She crossed herself and so did Roland. “Tragically, he died. Oh, my Lord, were you here then, in Ireland?” She couldn’t do the math fast enough. He arrived at fourteen, but when was that?

  “I was still in England.”

  “I was four years old when Sebastian died in the Year of Our Lord 1211,” she added to help with a timeline. “I hadn’t the maturity or concept to grasp what had happened, only that a playmate had died. We were betrothed and then he was dead. Four years old and a widow. Rumours of heresy and Satan ran rampant. The Lady Aine and her devil spawn were to blame. God would not suffer a heretic on the throne.” Eloise put a hand over her mouth. She had revealed too much, surely, such painful history, and her own internal fears. Still she felt compelled to say more. “Can you imagine how damaging that is?”

  “I knew of the young Lord’s death, of course. But I never considered-” Roland shook his head. “Such contracts at birth are damaging for many reasons.”

  “And of course, there was the unfortunate incident with Lord Elroth of New Pembrokeshire when I was five,” she reminded him. Was there an end to the tragedy associated with Dahlquin, she wondered? Now this siege, this war. Why?

  “Well, Lord Elroth. He has no one to blame but himself,” Roland commented, “deceitful bastard,” then remembering his company, “Shame upon me. I have such fucking fatigue.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Shame again. Damn it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I apologize. Fuck.”