Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  As if drawn by magnetism, both parties moved forward at a rapid pace.

  “Oh, sorrow upon us, you stopped singing,” hailed a man, waving as he approached.

  “Pray continue,” another man’s voiced called out. “Been enjoying the music for miles.”

  She and Roland had grown careless singing across the open bog. One of the men had a child behind him. Their arrival could not have been more ill-timed, and Eloise’s startle turned to resentment at this intrusion upon her musical joy with Roland. She noticed the men were dressed in rough homespun travelling tunics and hose with large daggers on their belts in lieu of war swords. Merchants of wine, ale or some other imbibement from the casks in the wagon. One of the women appeared to be about six or seven months pregnant. Tight red curls circled her face as the rest tried in vain to escape her matronly braid. Eloise was reminded of her own unkempt hair tickling her cheeks and neck. The other woman was a black-haired vixen. Her large brown eyes devoured Roland as she smiled in warm hospitality. Surely her lips were vainly painted that unnatural sanguine. She turned and gave Eloise a big wink and a pouty smile of promise. Eloise near swallowed her tongue.

  “You’re quite a songbird,” the man with the boy behind him said, hesitating as he studied Eloise a moment longer, “lad.” His brown hair and beard were greying, with dark stains at the corners of his mouth.

  “Eh?” his partner said with a grunt, looking Eloise up and down. “Fooled me,” he said acknowledging she was a lad. His ruddy brown hair and beard curled tightly and seemed recently trimmed and combed. “Seems a shame to lose that voice. Ever consider harvesting his noisettes?” he asked Roland, in a voice deep and gravelly from drinking, gesturing with two fingers together to imitate shears. “Snip, snip. Before his voice goes harsh as a whore’s cat.”

  “What? If I understand your meaning,” Roland said with a laugh, obviously caught off guard by the remark. “I never once considered it,” he added, shaking his head with mirth.

  Eloise felt her cheeks flaming. On top of her embarrassment, she felt long strands of wayward hair down her neck, which had come loose from the tied braids under her cap. It was all she could do to keep her hands from tidying the revealing locks. Her nervousness wore on Garth, and he lifted his head, demonstrating his size and potential to the strangers’ horses and mules.

  “You should - fair waste that,” the first man agreed, chuckling. “Don’t worry yourself, Danny, you already sound like a cat,” he said to the boy behind. Eloise estimated he was about ten years of age.

  “If I might introduce ourselves to you, noble sirs,” the second man said, “I’m Lugdach. This is my partner, Brendan and his eldest son, Wee Brendan, though we call him Danny.” Roland and Eloise exchanged nods with each and Eloise noticed the men had red noses, though the weather was mild. “And there be my charming wife, Flann.” The redheaded woman bowed her head. Her nose, too, was slightly red. “Her half-sister, Medb, the generous.”

  Eloise coughed. Medb. The vixen was giving Roland a plump-cheeked grin, her chin tilted just slightly to the left as if she were asking and answering a question at the same time.

  “The queen of generosity,” Roland was saying, his brown-eyed gaze covering her like a wool blanket. He bowed deeply from the waist as if she were indeed the Queen of Connacht, which she most certainly was not.

  “I’m Roland, Lord of Ashbury-at-March, Connacht,” he added. “This is El, the Angel’s Voice of Connacht.”

  “Thirsty work, singing,” Lugdach said with a sly smile. “Fortuna’s Wheel has blessed us all, sirs, for we’re brew merchants and tavern workers.”

  Eloise watched as Roland sat up, squaring his shoulders just slightly. The longing in his deep brown eyes and parted lips was unmistakable.

  “With a bit of quality beer for purchase by such noble travelers as yourselves, sirs,” Lugdach added.

  She watched Roland slump and sigh. “You’re most observant, for I’ve a powerful thirst. But alas I’ve a powerfully empty purse as well,” Roland said. Eloise watched the brew merchant slump in return.

  “Powerful thirsty, I believe that,” Brendan said with a sigh, rolling his eyes. “Brothers in travel, eh. Lending a hand.” This time his sigh sounded more like a groan. “Pass that bag,” he said to Flann, pointing to a skin bag on the cart seat between her and Medb. She passed the bag to Lugdach, who in turn passed it to Brendan who held it out to Roland. “Have a good swallow.”

  “So, you know what you’re missing,” Lugdach added with a scowling grin.

  “You and the lad,” Brendan said, when Roland didn’t take the offered skin bag.

  Roland wouldn’t take the charity, but his thirst was palpable as he licked his parched lips, not taking his woeful brown eyes from the bag suspended within easy reach of his gauntleted hand.

  “If it pleases my Lord Roland,” Eloise interjected, keeping her gaze low, ignoring the pesky loose strands of long hair escaping her cap. “Mayhap I could sing a song in trade for your sip.”

  “Eh? How so, you’ve been singing free as a bird for miles, why charge us poor merchants now?” Lugdach said, surprised.

  “Thirsty work,” Eloise reminded them.

  “What say you, Lord? Lugdach?” Brendan asked looking from one to the other. “Sounds a fair bargain to me.”

  “It’s better than begging, brother travelers or not,” Lugdach grudgingly agreed. Flann said nothing. Medb was all swollen smiles and chest, and Danny had a toothy grin. Roland sat tall on Artoch, his large gloved hand rubbing his jaw. He hadn’t spared the vixen a single glance upon discovering the brew merchant’s hidden ware. As at the farm, Roland had everyone staring at him, waiting for his decision.

  “One song, one bag,” Roland queried. “Two songs, two bags?” he asked with a tilt of his head, his gloved hand still on his jaw.

  “Robbery, that be,” Lugdach scoffed. “One song, one sip.”

  “Robbery God’s beard!” Roland said. “One song, one long pull,” he countered.

  “Now,” Lugdach said, “that depends on the songs. This isn’t a tavern with paying customers.”

  “And not some dreary, guilt ridden dirge,” Flann said, speaking for the first time.

  “I once met five brewers while crossing the bog,” Eloise began to sing slowly, letting the simple words and story form in her mind: simple, everyday rhymes.

  “Though graced not with sun, we did not have fog,” she sang, raising her arms to the glorious day.

  “Their wares it was heavy, their poor mules looked to die,”

  Eloise looked at their mules with an exaggerated look of woe.

  “Our travels and singing had left us parched dry,”

  “Forthwith, forthwith their spirits so lightened,”

  She continued fanning her hands and smiling at the men, boy and women who in turn looked to each other shaking their heads, suppressing a hint of mirth, Eloise hoped. Well, Danny smiled broadly, probably happy to be included in the fraternity of brewers.

  “They eagerly sought to quench thirst and thus brighten,”

  She sang it again, for it seemed an appropriate chorus, though out of place.

  Roland and Danny clapped their hands in boisterous approval. Then Roland took the proffered skin bag, eyes glowing, cradling it as if it were his first born.

  Eloise watched Roland take a decent drink of the brew. Shoulders slackening, eyes closed the hearty drink remained in his mouth for a long savour before his Adam’s apple marked its passing. He inhaled, eyes still closed, prolonging the flavour. He held up one finger, one pull, and then offered the bag to her. Eloise shook her head only slightly. Her parched throat begged a taste, but she would not deny Roland.

  “Know any more drinking songs, lad?” Brendan asked her.

  “I do, sir,” Eloise conceded, “several.” She paused, remembering the numerous and lewd variations of such songs, before singing the Cleric’s Cat, about a saucy grey feline who dropped his captured mice into the cleric’s brew or wine then a
te the morsel well basted.

  Danny laughed and squealed with delight while Medb and Flann chuckled with approval.

  “Well done, lad,” Brendan congratulated.

  Lugdach held up two fingers to Roland, indicating the second drink, then changed his meaning by snapping them together again, snip, snip. “It’s not too late,” he mouthed.

  Roland enjoyed another long swig on the skin bag, hugging it to his chest in the hope Eloise would be permitted to sing yet another song. Gladly, for his contentment was intoxicating. Surely the brew had done something to his mouth, for his lips curved in the most inviting way when he smiled at her. Not Medb.

  “Sorry Medb, looks like he only has eyes for the bag and the boy,” Lugbach said.

  “Hmmm,” Medb cooed, smoothing her thick black hair, then bringing it full round so it hung over her shoulder and across her full bosom, gleaming like a raven’s breast. Her traveling garments were tidy and well fitting, her round face was unblemished with hardly a trace of dirt. Eloise’s own filthy cheeks itched, and the caked dirt on the back of her neck prickled as her stringy, unravelling hair nagged at her. Eloise wished she could flaunt her amber locks, cascading down her back and over the shoulder of her new blue and gold surcoat, a bleached linen chemise snugly tied at her rose-scented wrists. She inhaled, imagining her chest, her bosom filling out. The comparison ended there, even without the tight bindings her breasts would never ooze with the crude excess of Medb’s.

  Again, Medb smiled at Roland with a sanguine pout that made Eloise bristle like a barn cat. Garth too. Roland inhaled deeply; his nostrils flared like a stallion’s. The vixen was naught but a rutting sow. A clean, raven haired, buxom sow. Eloise glanced at Roland and found him glancing quizzically back at her.

  “If the boy is that satisfying, mayhap I could take his front,” Medb murmured, running her tongue over her bottom lip, “and his lord keep the backside.” She paused, glancing up from lowered eyes from Eloise then to Roland. “The King and Queen of generosity,” she added almost blowing a kiss. “Of course, you may lose that golden voice, lad,” she purred to Eloise, “but you’ll thank me with proper husk. You both will.”

  Flann burst out laughing and slapped her leg.

  Eloise tried to close her gaping mouth, only to have her lip twitch in astonishment. Embarrassment surged up, replacing her jealously of moments before.

  “Medb,” Brendan snapped, “remember wee Danny here.” His cheeks matched his red nose, while Danny looked about confused.

  “I do apologize, sirs,” Lugdach said. “My sister-in-law is the epitome of Irish hospitality, eh?” he said, trying to suppress his laughter.

  “That she is,” Roland said, looking directly at Medb. Even in profile, Roland was smouldering. As he narrowed his eyes, Eloise could feel the radiated heat, heat she coveted for herself. Medb held his gaze with uncowed intensity. The edges of her mouth seemed to hover, almost smiling. Her brows knitted, almost imperceptible, her expression appeared questioning. Nearly as imperceptibly, Roland shook his head, the edges of his mouth hinted up. Medb’s pout hinted at a frown. Roland smiled in earnest, then raised his hands and shrugged. Medb did the same.

  “Shall we have one more song?” Medb asked, studying Eloise with new scrutiny, her gaze moving slowly over Eloise’s face until their eyes met. Eloise didn’t expect to favour her, nor had she the desire, but Medb had a kindness to her eyes, wise, playful and non-threatening. Qualities Eloise would seek in a horse and a friend. “A parting gift between friends and rivals, eh Little Sister?” Medb said in a conciliatory voice, nodding to Eloise.

  “You don’t need to insult the lad,” Lugdach said, “though taking the wee songbird from behind, who is the wiser? He is looking better and better.”

  Everyone laughed except Medb, Roland and Eloise. Roland glanced between her and Medb.

  “Might our Lord Roland have another pull?” Medb asked, pointing to the skin bag still in Roland’s lap. Lugdach glared at her, and she waved a dismissive hand at him. “Take it out of my share,” she said, “I’m the Queen of Generosity. Only wish I had mead, to soften the journey.”

  “Mead?” Flann said, “ach, the bog is affecting your head, Medbie Love.”

  “So it is, best be moving on,” Brendan said. “One more pull,” he said to Roland, “and one more song as we part ways,” he directed to Eloise. “Best bog crossing I remember in years, eh Danny?”

  “It is, sir,” Danny agreed. “Do you know any songs with knights or dragons?” Danny asked as Roland tipped the bag for the last time.

  Eloise was about to answer when Medb spoke.

  “Drink deep, Lord,” Medb said in a throaty gurgle. “And remember well what we might have shared. You, yon companion and me,” she said with a nod of her head to each of them.

  Roland coughed the valuable brew in an aromatic rain upon Artoch’s neck.

  Danny howled with laughter, and the others chortled at Roland’s expense.

  “Waste of my fine brew,” Lugdach said, passing the skin bag back to Flann, “and the lad’s voice.”

  Roland wiped his mouth and chin with his sleeve, giving Medb a wicked grin. “El,” he said turning to her, “let us flee before we lose our virtue and reason. Fair travel to you, Brendan, Danny and Lugdach.” He rode over to the cart. “Safe travel to you, Flann, the fair and steady.” He kissed the back of her hand and Flann blushed to match her hair but made no effort to extricate her hand. “And Queen Medb.” A tug of war ensued as he tried to kiss her hand and she tried to place his hand upon her breast.

  “You need a husband,” Roland said with a chuckle, finally yanking his hand free.

  “I have one,” she said beaming, patting her stomach. “He is older than counting, and after four years has finally gifted me with child.”

  Roland sat back, eyes wide, a ‘what’ forming on his lips. Medb’s hair wasn’t braided as a married woman’s should be, nor had she been introduced as anyone’s wife. What indeed.

  “What harm?” she said, “his babe, and I have entertainment.”

  “Ah, Lord, looks like you lost some virtue after all,” Lugdach said, waving farewell.

  “Fair travel,” Brendan called back.

  “Knights,” Danny called. “And dragons.”

  Eloise and Roland rode on some distance. Roland had a fist to his bottom lip.

  “My Lord?” Eloise queried, concerned.

  He didn’t answer but extended his fist briefly. Then he sat up, rested his fist on his chest and belched. A belch that echoed across the bog with its own harmonic cadence. When the noise stopped rebounding, Eloise heard the distant laughter from their former companions.

  Roland smacked his lips in satisfaction. “That almost makes up for the ale I spit out. Almost.”

  Songs of knights and dragons carried Roland and Eloise off the Bog of Allen, and back to firm footing and greater vegetation and trees. Eloise tried to tidy her loose hair, tucking the dangling ends into the braids still tied to her itchy scalp. Miserable mess, this, thinking of the tedious process to wash and comb it all out.

  Roland sighed. “Good to be rid of that,” he added, waving behind him.

  “It is,” Eloise commented, “So exposed back there.”

  “Exposed, agreed,” he commented, then almost chuckling, “God’s eyes, that was close. Medb certainly had a soft spot for you.”

  “And you, My Lord,” Eloise added, remembering the flirtatious exchange, wondering if she had understood it. There was no mistaking Roland’s interest, she knew a breeding stallion when she saw one. Jealousy: a deadly sin, she told herself, though Roland didn’t act on his lust.

  Eloise felt the weight of the shield slip away.

  “What?” Eloise gasped.

  Reginald's shield clattered on the ground as both horses turned to study the noisy object.

  Roland dismounted and examined the shield.

  “The back strap has broken,” he said, tugging at the enarmes. “These are sound.”

 
; “I'll carry it,” Eloise said as Roland started to put the shield on his arm. “It's my shield,” she said, meaning it was her burden to bear, and not Roland's. Was this a sign? Uncle Reggie’s shield bringing her back to her purpose? Had her own envy and lust distracted her?

  Roland glared at her then returned to his task.

  “No,” he said, falling back on blunt English, “it's too unwieldy for-”

  “A girl?” she finished for him, confused and suddenly wary. Her posture changed. She met his glare. Dahlquin was strong, and if Uncle Reggie wanted her to have his shield then she would bear up under the unwieldy responsibility.

  “Aye,” he said, his brown eyes narrowing on her, his mouth a hard line.

  Anger and spite flared in her. Why? She had had such happiness a moment before. Joyous with singing. And hadn't he?

  He studied her, and she returned the scrutiny. Something was making him exceedingly mad. Again. She reflected, tracing back. Isn't that why they started singing in the first place, because he was a surly English knight? But it hurt, stabbed at her to think of him so. That was equally confusing. It was confounding.

  “Here,” he said, handing the shield up to her.

  “May you have goodness,” she said, still confounded. Uncle Reggie’s shield - a formidable shell of protection, and how often had she witnessed him use it as a battering ram. Was it a betrayal to her or Uncle Reggie to render the shield to Roland? Uncle. Nurse. The unbidden images of her beloved family. She could not cope. This wasn’t the time - not in front of Roland, not on the road.

  “For luck,” he added, swinging back into the saddle.

  Trembling, Eloise put her arm through the oversized enarmes. If it had been heavy and awkward on her back, it was heavier and more awkward on her arm. How would she shoot? Wearing the shield, holding Cara in her left hand, Eloise nodded, indicating she was ready to continue.

  Roland stared at Eloise, studying her. Again, she bristled.