by Anne Beggs
Frightened, he reared up. He wanted his face away from this man grabbing at it. After a safe distance he stopped and turned to look. Riderless and without direction, he waited and watched. A herd animal, he didn’t want to be out alone. There was safety in numbers. Three men approached him. Garth read by the stooped body posture and outstretched arms they were afraid. They displayed submissive behavior. These were smelly men, causers-of-pain. He moved away from them.
To be absolutely sure, the man checked one more time. With Eloise’s right wrist pinned under his knee, he reached across her and ran his hand along the inside of her legs. Not a caress, but a thorough search to be sure there wasn’t a male scrotum.
Eloise gasped at the violation, trying to squeeze her legs together as his fingers poked and probed. She had never been so misused in her life, and thought she would be sick.
“All right,” he said, pulling the dead man off her before yanking her up by her arm. “Up ya go.” As she winced and staggered in pain, he removed the shield. He wrenched her right arm behind her back and wedged her hand between her shoulder blades.
He held her against his left side and started towards the woods as Eloise struggled to resist his abduction. Unable to put weight on her left ankle, she took large jump-steps with her right foot. Her left arm ached. Her cross pendant banged against her chest as they ran. It was still there. If she could reach it, mayhap she could retrieve the hidden dagger within and save herself. The terrain was uneven and she stumbled, hitting her foot on high spots. The toe of her boot tangled in a clump of matted grass. Her abductor merely yanked her forward and stabbing pain seized her as though someone still beat her ankle. She tried to grab her ankle, to protect herself from the pain.
Roland caught the movement of a figure running across the meadow towards the woods. No, two figures. Reining forward on Artoch, Roland pursued Eloise and the marauder.
Roland’s adversary, the man with the branch, hesitated briefly before running into the woods to hide.
Artoch lengthened his stride and horse and rider caught up with the unsuspecting people on foot. Leaning forward from his charging horse, Roland envisioned his left hand with the talons of a bird of prey. With an iron grip he grabbed the fleeing man behind his neck, willing his fingertips to penetrate the flesh. Penetration or not, it was a painful grip and propelled the man forward with the speed of the knight on horseback. Eloise was dropped as the marauder ran helplessly alongside Roland. Rounding back in an easy turn, Roland cantered up to a large tree stump. Charging in fast Roland rammed the man into the stump. The robber took the full impact face and chest in equal force, then rebounded from the impact and fell on his back in the high meadow grasses.
Eloise crumpled and skidded in the tall grasses. Finally, able to hold her ankle, she curled into a ball cradling herself in the tall grass hiding like a frightened fawn. The pain returned in ever increasing waves.
Roland walked back to make sure the robber was dead. Eyes staring in different directions, blood foaming from the corner of his mouth, it appeared he was trying to talk. His arms twitched. Hearing splashing, Roland watched two young men run across the stream in their bid for escape. Let them go, Roland calculated to himself.
Now for the slaughter. None of these men would be left alive. So, the warrior purged his system of the last remaining need for death. This kind of slaughter was unfit for knights. Squires and others usually completed this dirty work. Still, it satisfied Roland as he stabbed the beating heart of each surviving robber beneath his feet.
Eloise, Eloise!”
She continued to cradle herself.
“Eloise! Eloise?” Roland called again. She took a few deep breaths, rousing herself. His voice, her name. He was searching for her, not sounding an alarm. Her breath heaved, but words wouldn’t form as she sought to hail him. She crawled to her knees, then concentrating all her efforts she stood, balanced on her right foot. All she saw was a dark silhouette on horseback with the brighter daylight a halo behind him. She lifted her shaking arms, hands outstretched.
Roland dismounted and embraced her. Eloise squeezed her right side deep into his arms and held tight, tight as she’d gripped her uncles’s shield. They stood there together, safe for the moment.
Flies already swarmed and the buzz carried through the still June air. The crows noisily regaled each other from the trees. These large scavengers were working up the courage to come closer, still not sure it was all quiet and safe. The smell of fresh blood permeated the senses of wildlife. Those whose existence depended on such readily available nutrition would anticipate when and where to proceed. The herbivores would stay clear. This was a smell of danger: men and blood. Unaware of nature’s janitors coming in to feast on the carnage of their triumph, Roland and Eloise clung to each other.
“My Maiden strikes quick and true,” he stated complimenting her on killing two men herself. “I took a moment to examine the men for wounds. Two lethal blows.” Taking a deep breath, he rested his cheek on her head. That silly cap had fallen off, and he could feel her soft amber hair. “It’s alright now, all safe,” he tried to be calm and soothing.
Eloise tried to laugh at his compliment, but instead started to cry. The pent-up anxiety harbored these four days liberated itself: the siege on the castle, her grief for the death of Uncle Reggie, her Nurse and the grief for all the other men she had doctored. Some had survived with her care, for others she could only ease death. For them she sobbed with cataclysmic waves. Beaten and vulnerable, Eloise wasn’t strong enough to block the horrific images of Hughy, Alsandair or the others, the vacant eyes of loved ones, the taste of blood and stench of burned flesh. She cried for the fright and uncertainty of her escape from her ancestral home. “Garth,” she whined. Remembering her horse, his peril then and now, how had she forgotten her horse in all this?
“Garth is here, well and good,” Roland said.
Eloise accepted his words as true, but it wasn’t enough to bring her back to the present, as the unbidden memories reclaimed her. She sobbed and wailed in anguish for her parents. Eloise feared for her mother, so sweet and kind. Her body shook, trembling like a stone rampart on impact.
“Eloise,” Roland said, squeezing her. Trying to comfort her, she knew, but she was beyond comfort. Lost in pain and worry.
Wolves. The long, grueling journey with little rest, food or comfort, and now this. She let it out. She had been beaten and almost murdered. She had stabbed two men. She didn’t weep for them, but she wept for another piece of innocence lost. Nausea overcame her as she remembered the horrible man who stuck his filthy paws down her chest. Even with the bindings tightly in place, he had cupped the mounds of her breasts; he had run his hand between her legs, her most private places. Jerking violently from Roland’s embrace she vomited and choked.
Roland lifted the corner of his tunic and wiped her mouth. She flinched and he saw the splits to her upper and lower lips. They bled again. Huge, fierce bruises were already forming. Her left eye, once so full of sparkle and intensity, was completely hidden from view behind swollen flesh. Drops of blood dotted her ear and her nose bled freely.
“Bastards! God cursed bastards,” he muttered, wishing he could kill them again. “Are you cut? Bleeding?” he asked, holding her out at arm’s length to see for himself.
Sniffing, Eloise shook her head, and the sobbing overtook her.
“Let it out. I’m here,” he soothed, taking her back in his arms. He felt an innate need to rock her, and he swayed gently left, right, left, right. “You’re safe now. They’re gone.”
Christ almighty, he reprimanded himself again. Stupid! Careless! He went through an entire repertoire of vulgarities, begging forgiveness each time, then starting again. Your fault, he scolded, almost got her killed, and yourself as well. Stupid fucking careless. Let your guard down, let her ride into a trap. His rocking helped him to stay calm, and soon Eloise was breathing in rhythm with him.
He kissed the top of her head. Then he left his lips there
, gently resting on the crown. He took in the full scent of her. Long gone were the traces of bath, flower scented soaps and other spicy perfumes. Just the smell of her, and a week’s worth of sweat and grime, and her. She filled his arms and his senses. As the focus of battle wore off, a feeling of success replaced it. Victory. There had been ten marauders. Eloise had killed two, two had run off, and he had killed six. Not bad, all carelessness aside.
A warrior’s need to declare victory, to boast, or gloat, or simply celebrate survival were well accepted throughout history. In the extreme, it was the rape and pillage of a conquered enemy’s camp. It may be parading joyfully home, or just the robust celebration of men in a tavern. Roland had a need to release his victory tension, just as Eloise was releasing her grief and fear.
To the victor go the spoils and Roland felt possessive, of Eloise.
Shit! Roland thought. Fucking, bleeding, Saints on the Cross flashed in his brain. He groaned. The feel of the maiden’s body swaying seductively in rhythm with his, the urge to take her and claim her as his own was making him desperately uncomfortable. It seemed his manhood was saluting the victory: it was hard, damp and erect, trapped in his braises. So long since he’d been with a woman, and how he pained to be with this one. Wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman before, he thought.
It should be. There were conventions that would support his claim. It could be argued her father had abandoned her to his care. He had risked his life ten to one to win her back. She wasn’t an unfair fee to exact. And, there was no one to stop him. Surely not the maid herself, she would willingly give herself up to him, he figured, swept up in the same emotion to celebrate their triumph.
He needed to step away, disengage.
Garth made his way to the stream; after drinking, he started to graze. His herd instinct kept him close. Artoch, too, longed to drink. He had suffered some minor cuts and abrasions from the club and stones thrown in an effort to unseat the knight. He fidgeted and shook to dislodge the flies already pestering his injuries.
“Horses are fine,” Roland said, “let’s get to the stream.” They could all use some water. A week’s worth of road dirt, sweat and grime covered him. Stale blood and more sweat and grime on top of that from his efforts at Dahlquin Castle. Fresh spatters of blood, filth, more sweat were piled on that. The abattoir himself, he thought.
The movement stopped. Eloise ceased crying. The waves of emotion and sobbing left her exhausted, drained. Too long she had been holding it in. Roland helped her limp to the stream.
Once kneeling, Eloise struggled unsuccessfully to drink. The water seemed to drip everywhere but into her parched mouth.
“Let me help,” Roland said, dipping his hand into the cool water and holding it steadily to her split lips. Eloise held his hand with her two.
“May you have goodness,” she whispered, slowly getting the water past her bleeding lips into her mouth.
After several handfuls of water, she touched her chin trying to wipe away the rest. She felt her mouth, and lips. Next, her cheek, and with very cautious fingers probed the swollen flesh to feel if her eye was injured. Would she be blind in one eye like Alsandair? Next her ear: it still burned but wasn’t lacerated as badly as she feared. The sound of ripping roused her from her examination. Roland had cut a piece of his tunic and dipped it in the water. As he lifted the wrung-out piece of cloth, she caught his hand in hers.
She held it there a moment before whispering, “Shame upon me, you must be hurt too.” Regaining her sense of duty, she searched his face, ears, neck for injury. She studied his chest and arms, spattered in fresh blood on top of the old. “Any of this yours?” she asked, reaching out to palpate, then seeing her own hand still shaking far too much to be of any help.
“I’m unharmed,” he answered, lifting the cloth to her face. “It’s you who is hurt.”
Eloise reached for his hand again, but he kept it moving to clean the blood and dirt from her face as she held on to his wrist. I should be the healer, she thought, forcing herself to sit still.
“Am I hurting you?” he questioned, when she grimaced.
“You are not, shame upon me, it’s just that-” she said.
“Then let go my arm and let me do this for you,” he said softly.
She obeyed and let him continue. The cool cloth felt good on her tender ear. She put her hand on his to hold it there a moment longer.
Last night in the farmyard, she had longed to be this close to Roland, to feel his large hands stroke her cheek, exalt in the touch of his fingers through her hair. Now, she wanted to hide from his close gaze. Her appearance must be hideous. He is so handsome, she thought. And I’m an ugly squirrel in boy’s clothing. New tears formed in her eyes. Only a week ago, she was a princess within Dahlquin. Estate, status and a name: today all that was stripped away from her, she had naught but pain and worry.
“Sorrow upon me,” Roland said as he brought his hand away from her ear. “I’m not accustomed to ministering to someone as delicate as you.”
You’re not hurting me, I have embarrassment, she thought. She wanted to hide, put distance between them so he wouldn’t see her so. Get back in the saddle, get away from this place, help her parents. That was what she wanted to do.
What she needed to do was take care of her wounds. Where to start? It was hard to doctor yourself. Roland looked at her enquiringly. What next? Indeed, she thought reading his expression, what next? Everything hurt. It was hard to concentrate. Think, she ordered herself.
“What is wrong with your leg? Your foot, ankle?” he asked.
How bad were her injuries? Would she be able to ride, should they make camp here? She had to get away from this field of death. There wouldn’t be healing with the scavengers, flies and memories of this foul place. They must leave. How could she move?
“My ankle,” she said, remembering the stabbing pain. Taking a deep breath, eye closed, she moved her toes, a good sign. She attempted to rotate her ankle and was met with throbbing pain. After two deep breaths, she tried to flex her ankle. Sharp pain stabbed her. She grabbed her ankle with her hands, waiting for the pounding pain to recede. She looked at her booted foot and began to unbuckle it, starting at the top, just below the knee. The knuckles on her left hand were scraped and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. “Would you help me get my boot off?”
“Pull it off? Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s swollen like a melon. We’ll never get it back on.”
“I need to see, to feel,” she said, trying to unfasten the next buckle.
“See or feel what? It’s injured. Leave the boot for support. That’s the remedy.”
“What if I’m bleeding? Maybe I can-” She had to turn her head to use her right eye. Her nose was running, and she had to cough. If she could just see her foot, lay her hand upon it. “Mayhap the swelling is the cause of the pain.”
“I disagree.” He sighed, then, “But, I will try and get it off.” He unfastened the last of the three buckles and tried to ease the boot off. “This will hurt,” he said, looking directly into her one open eye, “a lot.”
Eloise tried to suppress a shriek as Roland struggled to pry the boot off her foot. She dug her fingers into the turf as he pulled. “Damn,” escaped her lips.
“Damn is right,” he said. “And hmmm, hmmmm, and what else was it you couldn’t bring yourself to sing? La la la,” he ribbed her, distracting her from the pain.
Eloise snorted then chuckled at the absurdity of her present situation. Unable to grin or laugh, mirth did ease the pain a wee bit and it did wonders for the soul. Humor, despite its blackness, relieved stress.
“What’s so funny?” he smirked, pulling his dagger. “Let me see if I can cut this off.”
“Wonder upon me, how the bloody hmmm Hell I ended up here,” she answered. Four days ago she was comfortably working in the garden of Dahlquin, surrounded by Beast and Dragon, or grooming Garth in the stable. How had she sunk so low? Beaten, lost, with one of late King John’s godsons?
“Hmmm? How the bloody, fucking Hell you got here?” he corrected, still working at her boot. “God’s boots,” he lamented, glancing up at her. “This is ox-hide,” he sighed, “only the toughest leather for our High Maid Epona.”
“Ox-hide,” she concurred, wondering at the compliment ‘Epona’. “Ow!” she howled as he tried once more to remove the boot. Her dirty hands went to her bloody, mucous covered mouth trying to press her split lips together.
“Large pliers are what we need. A smith would have such implements,” he added, looking up at her.
Eloise watched his expression cloud over. His gaze moved across her face, he could see what she could only feel and guess at. Pain, fear and embarrassment engulfed her. She needed to leave. She wasn’t sure she could.
With fingers whisper-soft Roland pulled her nose, drawing her attention to his fingertips and his attempted grin.
“The boot remains,” he said, “unless you want me to remove your entire leg from about here?” Using his dagger he traced a line above the top of her boot, just below her knee.
Eloise shook her head.
“Let’s wash your face again,” he said, sheathing his dagger. “Then see if you can ride.”
Red foxes that had been hanging back at the woods edge pressed closer. A pair of foxes from the other meadow had been attracted. A badger drawn by the smell of blood emerged as well. The crows and flies had beaten them to it, but there was plenty of carrion for all. Vultures jostled for position amongst the crows.
As Roland collected her bow, spilled arrows, dagger and Reggie’s shield, Eloise balanced on her right foot, stroking Garth, feeling his legs for heat or swelling. He had an abrasion on his face, and she wondered if he had been struck by a club or punched by an evil fist. Plaintain, willow bark and spider’s web would ease both their suffering. They were not suffering, she told herself, Dahlquin and Ashbury suffered.
“Here is your dagger,” Roland said, handing it to her.
Eloise wobbled, losing her balance. Roland took her elbow.
