Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

“One moment you’re demure, pleasing even, the next we’re both ready to strike.” He continued to study her features, then his expression softened, his eyes brightened, his mouth formed a half grin. “Now I see what it is,” he said. “You take on a fighter’s stance.”

  “Fighter’s stance?” she asked shrilly, picturing a warrior, feet planted on the ground, sword drawn or fists protectively up before the face. She wasn't doing that, and she didn’t wish to fight, surely.

  “Aye,” he said, drawing the word out slowly as if still contemplating. “You tuck your chin defensively, as if you’re preparing to throw a punch. Oh, it’s subtle enough. And your glare.”

  Eloise thought about her chin. Was she glaring? She was, because he tried to intimidate her.

  “It’s a challenge. Naturally I get defensive. Suddenly we’re both making fists, grabbing our daggers,” he said.

  Eloise looked at her hands. Her right hand, on the side of Garth’s withers, held the reins lightly, her left held Reggie’s shield and Cara. “I’ve always been counseled to keep my chin down, lest I appear haughty and foolhardy,” she said.

  “You have traded arrogance for belligerence.”

  “Belligerence? I will not cower like a beaten cur and you accuse me of belligerence.”

  “I do,” he said, his grin turning smug. Your own horse feels your hostility. Look at his ears.”

  She did and Garth’s ears were pinned. Feeling her eyes upon him, Garth turned his head slightly towards her.

  “Horses never lie,” he was saying as she tried to let her breath out. “You told me that yourself.”

  Was there not an end to his haughtiness? Of course Garth’s ears were pinned, hers would be too. She was annoyed, not belligerent. “Easy,” she said, though it lacked her usual coo. After stroking Garth's neck, she sat tall, shoulders back, wondering what to do with her chin as it seemed her neck only had one position when she was thus irritated. Leaning slightly forward she clucked, urging Garth into an extended, ground eating amble.

  “El, I don’t wish to fight with you. And you shouldn’t be provoking one with me,” he said, cantering next to her.

  “I’m not,” she interrupted. “I-”

  “If you would listen to me,” he said interrupting her with a louder voice, “I’m trying to help you. Pages, squires and most especially ladies of noble birth should not assume a fighter’s stance, lest they wish to come to blows.”

  “I-”

  “El!” he barked, reminding her she was at least posing as his page. She glanced around to be sure there weren’t strangers or spies about to discover her poorly kept secret.

  “I think you’ve never known the back of a hand,” he said, his voice low, his expression stern. “And a disservice your parents have done you. And Ireland.”

  She stared at him a moment. His painful assault on her parents stung like a slap to her face. Brutality was not the way to instill courtesy. Still his words, his accusation reverberated in her. Oft times she had wished her parents would hit her and be done with it. Oh, bother those long hours of penance, or worse the guilt when her own Nurse or attendants had to suffer her confinements. But thankful she was to be spared the beatings poured on other Dahlquin residents.

  “That is a handy answer, when you have none,” she sneered. “Violence is not a substitute for education.”

  “And this is what comes of educating women. Back talk instead of the back of a hand.”

  Eloise glared over her shoulder at him as he ambled alongside her.

  “Nay fighter's stance,” he said, wagging a finger at her.

  Eloise sat up asking Garth for a slower amble. Where was her chin? She didn't care.

  “You claim to desire education. But you’re unwilling to learn, all you do is argue,” Roland said. The smug grin was replaced by a neutral expression as he, too, slowed.

  “That’s not true!” she snapped, as the horses ambled on.

  “Arguing,” he said, without looking at her as she and Garth shuffled down the road.

  She suppressed a rising scream. Of course she was arguing. How could she not in the face of such nonsense? Roland was an idiot: a small-minded, pugnacious English idiot. Unwilling to learn? She could read and write. Add and subtract. But there were so many unanswered questions. Was she to accept every answer given her, when she knew it to be false? Did he? How she longed for his speechless humility now. Eloise turned her attention to Garth's ears. The once-black colt was now a stunning dark dapple, and his ears bore the spider web pattern. Eventually his hair would be pure white, but he would always have black skin and black features. Today his sweaty coat glowed rare and coveted purple in this brief sunshine.

  Education is power. Forbidden. Knowledge is power. Fruit. Whose power does that threaten? If the farmers could read, would they be unwilling to farm? Not all knights could read, but they still fought. Would Mathair love Da anymore if she couldn’t read? How would she manage Dahlquin if she were unable to comprehend a ledger? Does she not tend the sick and wounded with knowledge acquired through learning? If someone died in her care, would the back of Da's hand revive the departed? Had Mathair been born with this innate knowledge, might she not have passed it down to me? That didn’t happen, I must study and practice... Eloise's internal dialogue stopped as she reflected on the dichotomy of the healing arts. Healers are chosen, her mother told her, yet healers must study and practice in order to do what they were chosen to do. And how many times did Eloise squander her education daydreaming about less pragmatic forbidden fruit?

  “El?”

  Drawn from her reverie, Eloise glanced at him. “My Lord,” she responded. The sky had darkened, and she could see rain coming. She didn't think they would be able to outrun this shower as they had done running from Tiomu's men and the uncooperative cattle.

  “We’ll put under those trees and wait it out,” Roland said as the first drops hit them.

  There was a dense copse of pine, oak and willow with barely enough space for two large horses and their riders. Eloise backed Garth into the leafy shelter, taking care to stand on the treed side away from Roland. The summer shower spattered the road they had just exited, and Garth turned his head to the noisy canopy above him, but little rain penetrated the convenient arbor. Artoch dropped his head to graze, but Garth sampled the pine needles chewing with an inquisitive expression that made Eloise smile.

  “How is it your mother, or at least your Nurse or an aunt, never taught you a modicum of fear?” Roland asked.

  Eloise stared, wondering what possessed him to ask such.

  “You prance through life as if no harm will befall you.”

  “Prance through life? I’m not prancing. I’m running for my life, and the life of my family. I’ve never had such fear.” She paused, remembering all the death at the siege. Her beloved Nurse, bravely placing herself between Eloise and danger.

  “Do you have fear now?” he asked.

  What manner of interrogation was this? Why would he ask such a thing? “Of the back of your hand, mayhap?” she asked. The words sounded terrible when she heard them, words spoken in frustration.

  Garth shifted his weight. If Roland made a sound, she couldn’t hear it. Eloise felt trapped in the leafy shelter by her own sarcastic comment. She could envision Nurse cringing and her Lady Mother equally aghast. The rain on the leaves was a melodious, life-giving song. Why couldn’t she have said something as gracious?

  “My Lord,” she said, but it came out in a weak whisper. “Lord Roland,” she spoke again, grateful she couldn’t see him. “I apologize. My words were cruel and spoken in-” There wasn’t an excuse, why give one. “There’s such shame upon me. You didn’t deserve that.”

  Garth rubbed his face in the tangle of willow branches and brush causing the trapped rainwater to fall on them.

  “May you have goodness. I accept.” Roland's voice was soft and deep. After a pause, “I asked you a question.”

  Eloise had purposefully stood away from Roland. Avoiding
him. She knew she needed more time to think, to process her conflicts. But even out of sight, she couldn’t escape his presence, his breathing and the clink and rustle of his garments. And why was his voice so gentle, when he had every right to have anger and provocation upon him?

  Not a modicum of fear.

  He was waiting for an answer.

  “Rats,” she offered, for it was the truth and even the word was fearful.

  His continued silence indicated he was unsatisfied with her answer. She dare not speak now. She started to tremble and pinched her cheek to stop the tumult. He was waiting for another answer. His quiet presence wore on her in the claustrophobic copse. There wasn’t room for her defensiveness. Eloise felt helpless against it.

  “I live in fear,” she said, trying not to wail. “Every day I wake, I have fear. Fear I will be caught in my ignorance. Fear of my unworthiness. That I disappoint my parents, family, all Dahlquin.” The words tumbled out, leaning forward she buried her face into Garth's neck. I live in fear someone will discover I’m a freak and condemn me unholy. That was mayhap her most frightening secret, one she had only shared with Tommy, the pigeon-boy turned apprentice bowyer, and only because she shared his secret. She lifted her head, commanding herself not to cry. “Oh, I have brought such disappointment. I’m not a son.”

  Roland said nothing. The summer shower was passing and already the birds sang their gratitude, finding worms and loosened seed heads until the next rain sent them to cover. Eloise exhaled, wiping damp horsehair from her eyes. She sniffed, feeling somewhat amused that part of her burden had washed away with the rain, like some simplistic poem.

  “El,” Roland said, “that isn’t fear. It’s shame. They’re not the same.”

  Roland and Eloise returned to the road. Eloise felt chilled from the brief shower and pulled her arms close, the large shield awkward but comforting. Wanting to make up the lost time, Eloise urged Garth into a canter.

  Before her on the right stood an enormous oak. On the left stood an equally enormous chestnut. Boughs from each tree had spread across the road, entwining, creating a shady lane. Next to the trees large shrubs had grown thick and expansive, tall grasses filled in the surrounding meadows. Trees and woods skirted a stream and extended farther back. A large field extended left and went back some length until hills could be seen blue in the distance. Ahead, the woods filled into forest.

  “Stop!” Roland shouted behind her. “Eloise, no! Stop!”

  Garth and Eloise slowed to a walk. Eloise pitched forward in the saddle as Garth balked. His front legs splayed, then he tucked his hindquarters down engaging his hind legs to spin and flee. As Roland shouted, Eloise tipped back in reaction to pitching forward. Before regaining her upright posture, a figure fell upon them from the tree. She almost toppled out of the saddle with him, then more men jumped down on her and Garth. One man slid past Garth’s neck, landing in front of the startled horse, grasping for his reins and bridle. The third man took Eloise down hard on her right side.

  Eloise curled up under Reginald’s large shield. A wooden club beat down on the shield. Over and over he struck, denting it. Her left ankle took a blow and she yelped. The pain struck like lightning and ran up her leg and through her body like the recoil of thunder. She tucked her injured leg more closely toward her body. She took blows near her head and face. She could taste blood, her left nostril filled, and her sinuses swelled. Eloise tried to breathe through her mouth. She strained to suck in enough air through clenched teeth. Her left ear was ablaze and the noise under the shield was sickening. The knuckles on her left hand lacerated, rubbing against the inside of the shield, but she held on tightly like a turtle in desperation.

  Roland detected the trap too late. Drawing his sword, he spun Artoch, knocking men down as he sliced through them. There were enough men to overwhelm a single knight, drag him from his horse and kill him. Roland wielded his sword from one side to the next. Artoch pivoted on his front feet, his rear end knocking men down if they didn't dodge away. His sharp, shoed hooves were a constant threat. Spinning around again, Roland thrust back with the blade aiming for a man’s eyes, hitting the man’s face diagonally. Both eyes would have been better, but Roland moved on to the next.

  A man with a huge wooden club struck Roland on his left thigh. The pain was bone deep and Roland braced in the saddle. A large rock struck Artoch. He kicked out his hind legs twice, and Roland leaned back to compensate, luckily missing another large rock which whistled past his head. Twisting at the waist, Roland pulled his sword full around to the left side to defend against the next blow from the man with the club, already held high ready to strike Roland from his horse.

  Roland sliced the attacker’s bicep. The man roared but kept the momentum of his swing. The club took a glancing blow down Roland’s back, and he felt the club drop on the other side of Artoch. With his good arm, the attacker tried to grab Roland. The injured arm was hanging, and Roland had a clean opening to thrust his blade down into the man, following the cheek through the collarbone and into the chest and abdomen. The body dropped straight down, and the sword was free.

  Some of the kills were clean and direct, but most were mayhem of nightmarish proportion. No one to cover his back, no assistance to hope for. Fear nagged at the borders of his thought: where was Eloise? Was her body below him even now, being trampled? Had they killed her? All his energy was focused in stopping these men. Let the energy of man and sword unite and commit to the fight. El Muerte Rojo and Roland were one, with each breath and each heartbeat. As one they bludgeoned one marauder in the teeth, another the skull, with blade or pommel in turn.

  Frustrated beating on the shield, the man put down the club and with both hands lifted the shield and Eloise with it. Without fighting the bigger man for the shield, she let it rotate and brought herself with it, reaching for the dagger on her leg. Dagger drawn, she ground the blade into his chest. Bone and cartilage were tough, protecting the heart and lungs from assault by sharp objects or crushing impact. Fortune shone upon Eloise as her blade slid easily between the ribs. He was dead without seeing her face. His limp body fell. Eloise balanced on her good leg, the end of the shield as a crutch.

  From behind, someone grabbed the dagger, trying to wrest it from her grip. Spinning in the direction he pulled, they pivoted round and round. Losing balance, with her blade zinging wildly around, the thief let go as she rotated a little more. She launched herself at his back. Unable to support her weight on her injured ankle, she caught him around the waist instead of his neck with her shield arm. Gripping him tight she stabbed him in the kidney again and again. He arched back, his right hand reaching for the blade. The momentum of his death arch pushed them backwards, Eloise clinging to him so he couldn’t possibly reach her. They fell together, Eloise cradled in the shield, his body across her left arm and knee.

  She tried to spring up but was firmly restrained. If she could roll to her right, she could use her right hand and right leg to shove the body enough for her to wriggle free. The dying man’s thick warm blood seeped onto her. Her dagger hand was flung back, and someone stepped on her upturned wrist.

  She kicked with her right leg. The pressure increased on her wrist and the man easily pried her blade free.

  Eloise watched in pain as the man examined her dagger. He palmed it, seeming to appreciate the weight and balance. She tried to struggle free and the man ground her wrist with his foot until she was still.

  He stared down at Eloise and the dead man across her. Then his calculating eyes rested upon her chest. He reached down, lifting the wooden cross pendant, then dropped it as if unimpressed, squeezing the handle of her valuable dagger.

  “Fucking Hell,” he murmured, looking closer, his cold eyes studying her face, chin. “Who?” he muttered, then he yanked back her tunic and pulled at her chemise.

  Eloise gulped, but was unable to command herself to move.

  Unsatisfied he stuck his grubby hand down her clothing and felt the tight bindings wrapped around her
breasts to conceal them. Eloise screamed and wriggled against his touch.

  “Well,” he smirked. “You’ll be worth somethin’ to someun,” he said, grinning down at her.

  The left side of her face was swelling up. Her eye was almost closed. A blood clot filled her left nostril and she was breathing through her mouth. “Ugly squirrel,” he muttered.

  A few smaller stones hit Roland in the head and chest. He wasn’t unhorsed and continued to confound the marauders. Bodies lay beneath him, some dead, some wounded. Three men were still attempting to catch Garth. Eloise was nowhere to be seen. With no other men attacking, Roland went to dispatch the horse thieves. Riding up behind one of them, it was fast work to cleave at his head when the man turned. The next man was easy slaughter. The third man turned to face the mounted knight. Not easily deterred, he dodged and circled Roland until he could secure a branch big enough to work as a spear or lance or possibly a large stone to launch. Roland calculated this match. One on one, this man was still a dangerous adversary. On horseback, Roland had the advantage. But anything could happen when two determined men confronted each other.

  Horses, like most animals, sense fear. Garth wasn’t an exception. From the day he was born, Eloise had been there. As his mother licked the slimy film of the birth sack off him, Eloise was stroking him, mingling her scent with his. And from this early age, Eloise asserted her dominance over him, simple gestures she observed other horses doing with each other. And ones she adapted herself. Her position as the leader of his herd was undisputed, and so he accepted it. Others, however, had to be tried and tested.

  These marauders were not experienced horsemen and no match for a spirited stallion. Garth sensed something he didn’t like. A stench of smelly men he didn’t recognise. Two of the men had fallen out of trees and hurt him. The weight of them and their weapons caused him pain. This pain and surprise cut a deep memory: he would remember the smell, the pain and this place. Others were raining from the tree and jumping out of the bushes.