Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Eloise sniffed, suppressing laughter at Roland’s tired rant. It seemed neither one of them could keep quiet.

  His head fell back, eyes closed. “I’m just a foul-mouthed monkey’s arse,” he stammered, “when fatigue is upon me.” He shook his head apologetically. “Forgive me, Maid- El,” he corrected.

  “May you have goodness, gratitude is upon me, Sir,” Eloise smiled. “That’s the kindest sentiment I’ve heard in days,” she added, charmed by his effort to be courteous, like a knight in one of the Welsh tales she had heard in the nursery. Something Eleanor of Aquitaine would have expected. Not the tears, she commanded herself, a Dahlquin was above that. But she was not, and a tear or two needed brushing away.

  “So, back to you, golden-tongued one,” he shrugged. “After a harrowing childhood, what happened to the rest of your suitors? Surely your parents have given some thought to the future?” He pinched his lips shut with his gloved fingers, indicating he would remain silent.

  “Oh, after about ten years of grieving, the living had to be dealt with.” Eloise recounted for Roland some of the prospective spouses: “A pompous young U’Connor knight, a pompous hoary De Clare knight, a hoary widowed knight who had lost his estate, a striking young lord who stank of drink, a drinking lord who liked to strike, men from Wales even.”

  Roland laughed. “Give your father more credit than that,” he added.

  “I have fatigue myself,” she sighed, realizing she was about to recite an unflattering incident. “I can’t believe I’m sharing this with you,” she said, leading into one of many arguments she’d had with her father. “After being presented to Lord Echri of Gwynedd, I found him soft, even effeminate. Do you know him?” she asked.

  Roland pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. “Not sure.”

  “You would have me marry a eunuch!” I argued with my father. Uncle Reggie laughed uproariously at the truth of it.

  She remembered her father’s anger at her language and the tone. “’Impertinent brat!’ he scolded. I was resistant to consider any of the prospects he had screened for possible marriage. I was fifteen and not interested.” She paused before continuing. “’He won’t throw any colts.’ That’s all anyone cares about, I whined. ‘Eloise, watch your tongue,’ Uncle Reggie reprimanded, not laughing any more. So, I pulled my tongue with my fingers and tried to look at it.” She winced, remembering Uncle Reggie’s disapproving look. “Da grabbed my ear and twisted it. Pain upon me, I bit my tongue,” she added.

  Roland laughed at this revelation. “You told your father to his face you wouldn’t marry a eunuch? You are impertinent. If he can’t find a suitable eunuch, will he make one for you?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? Didn’t I tell you the kinds of men my father was entertaining? Gelded or imbeciles, all of them.”

  “Your father wants a man he can control. You’re the blood heir to Dahlquin. His kingdom,” Roland said, studying her. His use of the word kingdom alarmed her, and his face was stern in concentration. Then his head tilted. “You need a husband to throw a colt or two,” Roland said, his smirk returning. “And your complaint is?”

  “Why am I wrong in this, why can’t I have a choice? My father educates me, brings me up with love and happiness and then treats me like one of his brood mares.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give in to them. “He has little care for me.”

  “Little care? He raised you to be queen,” Roland rebuked, revealing his respect for her father and her father’s noble efforts on behalf of an impertinent daughter.

  The rebuke wasn’t lost on Eloise. Nor his inflections. With a deep sigh of resignation, she cast her eyes around the surrounding horizon. Then she shot Roland a sideways glance. A reluctant smirk grew into a grin on his face. This was only half the story, why she was unmarried. Suspicion over her missing half-uncle, Lord Ruaidri, of years past hung over her head, as well as heresy and sorcery, of course.

  “You’re fortunate your father loves you as much as he loves his mares,” Roland added, smiling.

  “You are correct,” she admitted, pondering the comment. “Most men don’t love their wives or their mares.” Tears continued to well in her eyes.

  “Some do,” he offered.

  “Some,” she answered, “my parents.” She loved them so much, yet in this moment she felt such a surge of jealously. That is what she wanted: love, respect, tenderness. Yet they would deny her all they enjoyed in marriage to secure the estate. Frustration rose in her, and she tasted the bile of anger. She glanced at Roland, who was glaring at her. Why? What did he have to disapprove of?

  “You have distress,” Roland said, “grieving your parents. Sorrow upon me. Let’s speak of something else,” he offered, his voice gentle with concern.

  “That’s all there is, then,” she contemplated. “Well. Queen of the herd,” she concluded, snorting, then sighing. “So, what do you want?” she asked.

  Roland looked at her, puzzled.

  “You seem displeased.”

  Indeed. He was displeased. He was in a period of adjustment, and now peril. He was obligated to her safety, and the realm of his liege, High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert. It was an onerous responsibility, and none but his.

  “Shame upon me. Rude of me,” she said apologetically. Yet she watched him, hoping he would open up. What would life hold for this fortunate lord? Surely he could make his own choices and decisions. “I was just curious,” she prompted again.

  Roland looked at her. She gave a weak and hopeful grin. Talking did ease the long miles. They rode faster and felt the fatigue less.

  “You are most unusual,” he said. She was tired, dirty and relentless as she propelled her horse across the countryside.

  “Unusual, well, I think I prefer impertinent,” she said. With that she stepped up the pace. Garth swished his long silver tail with agitation. He had been ambling steadily for quite some time and resented the request for more.

  “That too,” he added, catching up to her.

  Eloise let her fat lip protrude. She took a deep breath. “Well, we’re both honest.” She didn’t apologize.

  Roland laughed. She smiled, wryly, watching him laugh. He didn’t laugh much. And that smile. She thought she would turn to pudding.

  “How do you know I’m so honest?” he asked.

  “You telling me you’re not?”

  “I guess we’ll see,” he answered.

  “Hold me for ransom, then?” She maintained a calm voice, but her head stirred. She watched him intently. Could she have been so wrong? She touched her wooden cross feeling it under her tunic, and pictured the dagger on her calf.

  “Impertinence upon you,” he said for lack of anything better, ambling next to her again.

  “Says you,” she responded. Maybe he wasn’t different from the rest, arrogant, domineering, entitled. Male.

  “Did I say it was a bad thing?” he smiled, his dark brown eyes challenging her. “I’ve been called that myself more than once.”

  “Not recently.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Who would dare say that to your face, Lord?”

  “You would.”

  She smiled and her fat lip stung. She looked away, licking her lip with her tongue to ease the burn.

  “God’s blood, look at you,” he teased, “trying to hide that smile.”

  Eloise could feel herself blushing.

  “Curse it,” he muttered. “I believe there are a lot of things you would tell me to my face,” he said, then muttering low, “probably things I don’t want to hear.”

  They stared at each other, ambling along, not speaking.

  “We’re honest enough,” he said, breaking the silence, a gentle grin on his travel-worn face. The expression seemed so open. There was much she wanted to know, much she longed to share, but was unsure how. She was drawn him, desperately it seemed. What to do?

  “So as one impertinent to another,” she proceeded, “why such unhappiness?”

  “Unhappi
ness?” he said, glancing over his shoulder warily.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Aside from Tiomu’s men pursuing us,” she said, watching him scan the route before them. “Or cutting cross country to cut us off,” she added.

  “Do you think that’s possible?” he asked, looking all the harder with his hand above his brow to block the light. Eloise suspected he was worried and mocking her at the same time.

  “Not practical to go around the Bog of Allen. It lays before us, vast, open, unprotected,” he said, looking all the harder with his hand above his brow to block the light. “Nay,” he muttered, “they must cut us down before we reach Leinster.” There wasn’t mockery in that.

  “If not unhappy, you have displeasure, forlornness, imposition, mayhap?” she asked.

  “Do I look any of those things?”

  “You do,” she admitted, “you reveal displeasure often enough. I wonder what a man as you have to plague his thoughts.”

  Roland looked at her as if bewildered.

  “You have so much opportunity, so many choices,” she elaborated.

  “Choices, me?” he laughed.

  “You don’t? Truly, you can come and go as you choose. My Lord, you have a fief bestowed by Lord FitzGilbert, Ashbury-at-March. You’ll have a steady income and a home.” Still Roland stared at her; he didn’t seem to see those choices. So, she continued, “You travel and move about as you desire, with no one to say ‘stay home and behave.’”

  Roland tried to conceal his laughter. “And you would appropriate armour and travel thus?”

  “Not the armour.” How she wished she could wear her new blue and gold surcoat now. She felt unusually unattractive. “But the desire to travel.”

  “You are traveling.”

  “You’re not listening, or do you purposefully miss my meaning?” she sighed. “I wish I hadn’t said anything.” She urged Garth forward and upped the pace, and again Roland was in her dust.

  “Wait, hold, I was impertinent,” he offered, catching up, “it’s just that maybe travel isn’t what you thought. It’s work and harsh conditions, such as these. We ride without rest, go without food.”

  “I would save my home,” she glared at him. “We don’t have the luxury to visit distant kinsfolk nor the far-off cathedral or sacred sites that would beckon me. That is the difference.”

  “Ah, a leisurely progression,” he said. “There is a difference.”

  Eloise gave a nod.

  “So, what are these choices and opportunities I have?” he asked. “What do you see that I don’t?”

  “What indeed,” she frowned, but started again. “You’re a titled lord with a fief and holdings. You’re young, healthy,” she paused a moment in embarrassment, “and handsome. Beautiful women probably throw themselves at your feet. You’ll have your choice of a wife. Your father will not dictate to you.”

  Roland laughed. “You lead a rich fantasy life, El. Where do you get such ideas?”

  She didn’t laugh but studied him. He was a most fortunate man, confident, capable and humble. Would his virtues never end? Rich fantasy life, indeed: he was the making of fantasies. Now she smiled; a small huff of mirth escaped her.

  “What a world!” Eloise observed as Roland again glanced behind them. She looked too. Did he see anyone?

  “I might say the same for you,” Roland said. “You’re an heiress to a vast estate, you hold Dahlquin in your hand, King willing,” holding his cupped hand out to demonstrate. “Handsome men don’t throw themselves at your feet?”

  “Never.”

  “Thankful you should be to your parents. The road to Dahlquin is paved with the remains of ignoble suitors.” He smiled at her then looked over his shoulder once more.

  “Do you see anyone?” she asked.

  “I don’t, but I know they’re back there. Can’t you feel it?” Roland asked, his voice raw and deep.

  “Are we riding into a trap? Could the Danes be ahead of us as well?” she asked. There were many Danish communities along the coast. Had they risen up in support of Tiomu?

  “Doubt that,” Roland answered. “Tiomu starts in Connacht. We didn’t see flags or banners, or Danish royalty. He would subdue Dahlquin, Connacht and move east.”

  “What of England? Will King Henry intercede?”

  “Your father thinks not. I agree. What of Henry? He is your king,” Roland asked. Seemed most in Ireland forgot that.

  “Henry,” she said warily. “He is king, of England.”

  “And Ireland,” Roland reminded her.

  “As you claim, he is our overlord, aye,” she conceded, mocking Roland’s language from their earlier dialogue.

  “Blasphemy and sedition,” Roland commented, raising his eyebrows. “He is king. By the Synod of Cashel.”

  Eloise gave him a smug look. “Citing such foreign treaties, blurring church and castle. And we pay handsomely to FitzGilbert and Henry. And for what? Ireland produces all the goods.” Eloise thought of all Dahlquin and Connacht provided, the stunning green marble that made up much of Connacht’s currency, the flax and exported linen. “If ever I should meet King Henry face to face, I will bow and call him Your Grace. Until then, he takes our hard-earned living and leaves us in peace. Fair enough?” she asked.

  “El,” Roland said, “I believe you understand better than that. Your Lord Father holds Dahlquin in King Henry’s name. You are the heiress by Henry’s generosity alone.”

  “And you, Lord, must surely understand the complexity of our hierarchy. There is great conflict between Pope, King and your liege. How do you reconcile your duty?” She emphasized ‘your’ addressing his conflicted position.

  “Are you implying Lord Albert of Ashbury or even High Lord FitzGilbert are disloyal? Treasonous to King Henry?” Roland asked. Eloise could hear the stirrings of outrage and wanted to reassure him, but he went on. “I know many of the Irish tribes still don’t recognise England as their sovereign, but you, your Lord Father, Ashbury and Scragmuir are Welsh and hold Connacht in the name of King Henry. Are you saying it’s otherwise?”

  “You miss my point. First let me clarify,” she said keeping her voice even. “Lord Albert, Lord FitzGilbert and my Lord Father are indeed loyal to King Henry and treason is not afoot.” She left Scragmuir out entirely, because she believed Scragmuir was most assuredly capable of sedition and more heinous acts against Connacht, England and God. “My question to you, Lord At-March, is how to reconcile these loyalties. There are rules and a code of conduct. Yet Church and crowns are continually warring. Don’t roll your eyes at me, you’re not stupid. You are, Sir, quite observant.” She was increasingly aware of Roland’s astuteness and ability to intuit much from her. “Thus, you must surely contemplate the complexity of your circumstance? Your family, your godfather, Sir John of Exeter, your knighting and oath to High Lord FitzGilbert, now as a subordinate to Lord Ashbury. Our allegiances are as tenuous as vellum and as volatile as a Roman god.”

  Roland stared.

  “What if Denmark is involved? Suppose we have to sign a treaty with that king, eh?” she asked. “What would we call him? Your Grace to all? As you say, Ireland has enough petty kings as it is without others butting in their great royal noses.” She thought of the U’Neill’s, her own mother’s U’Brien’s, the U’Connors, and the rest of her tribal blood cousins. Even her own father was, within Dahlquin, considered a king. Family, God, and Crown, I am your Man....the Dahlquin oath, a pledge of allegiance to the tribal familial king first and foremost.

  “God’s blood, exhaustion consumes me,” Roland said rubbing his eyes. “And a Dahlquin headache is brewing,” he growled, massaging his temples.

  “Dahlquin headache?” she asked. Was she being insulted?

  “It is. Big as a fu-” he paused, his face contorted. “God-cursed pony. No one should think this much and ride so hard all at once. You talk entirely too much, and about things inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate?” she asked, wanting him to clarify suc
h a comment. This was the politics of their existence. “I have yet to bring up the Order of Three. It appears balanced enough, but-”

  Roland raised a gloved hand and held up one finger.

  “I pray that you be still,” he said, squinting at her. He added another finger. “Labor on that, will you?” He put up a third finger. “Lest we fight. Order of Three,” he said, massaging his forehead.

  It was hard to be mad at him when he was in pain, and she watched him with a discerning eye. Lavender and rose petals would help soothe a headache. A nice, cool mask laid upon his eyes with rosemary as well. And someone to comb out his hair and massage his temples for him. And sing a soothing song of healing. Singing could be done here and now.

  She started soft and low, first to warm up her voice and second to ease him into it. His head hurt already, to explode it with a cacophony of ill notes would be rude.

  “Feel My Gentle Healing Gift,

  As I Would Sing You A Wellness Wish,

  Lavender Scent, is Comforting and Cool,

  Rosemary is Strong, a Helpful Tool,

  Forget Not the Rose Petals, moist as Dew,

  This Herbal Bouquet Will Bring Calm to You.”

  “I wish I had a balm to lay across your eyes. We’ll have to pretend,” she said softly.

  She sang it again and this time he hinted at a smile.

  Eloise sang three more soothing songs intended to ease patients and quicken their healing, with verse after verse offering remedies and spiritual comfort. Of course, it was more effective if she could rub in a curative balm or massage out the bad blood. Unable to lay her hands upon him, she infused her voice with warmth and softness and sang with her head tilted to Roland attuned to any change in his demeanor.

  “When your head doth pound with Thor’s relentless Hammer

  Your brain is in a vise and you beg release from Mjölnir’s clammer

  Let a gentle breeze of healing power, cleanse the blood and purge the bile

  May the spirit of Martyred Saint Stephan on his steed unreviled

  Balance the humors and add salix your humors unriled.”