by Anne Beggs
“May you have goodness,” she said.
Eloise took the dagger, held it in both hands, prayer fashion, feeling reverential and thankful. She had killed two men with this dagger. We’ll never be the same. She put her dagger in her calf sheath.
“And your bow and spilled arrows.”
Taking the arrows, she counted all fifteen, then reached out for Cara. Her bow hand was swollen and thick as she tried to grip her friend. Unable to feel the soothing hum of connection, she hugged the bow to her chest. Cara.
“He saved your life,” Roland said, lifting Reggie’s shield.
“Once again, Uncle’s blessings upon me,” she sighed, crossing herself in contemplation of such a miracle.
“Is there strength upon you to carry it now?”
Was she forsaking Reggie’s memory, Reggie’s gift? She was on a mission, and Uncle would understand.
“Would you, by your will?” she asked, wiping her nose.
“An honor,” Roland said. “Now, we need to go,” Roland prompted. “Oft side, aye, so I can boost you with your good foot.”
After putting Cara over her shoulder, Eloise took hold of the reins and Garth’s mane in her right hand and the pommel in the injured left. Roland took hold of her lower leg and lifted her up. She balanced a moment, easing her injured ankle over Garth’s back. In the first moments of pain, nothing felt secure.
“Wait here,” Roland said, jogging off.
What is he about? she wondered as she settled into the saddle, stroking Garth’s neck.
“Good boy,” she cooed. “My good Garth.”
Roland jogged back.
“Will this do?” he asked, looking squeamish, a wad of spider web on his extended fingertips, “with the spider’s compliments.”
“It will,” Eloise said, leaning over so he could apply the medicinal to her ear.
“Ah, mayhap,” he stammered, “so I don’t hurt you further,” he added, taking her hand and smearing the sticky web to her finger.
“May you have goodness, Lord,” she said, dabbing the spider’s gift to her abraded ear. If only I had leeches for this eye, she thought.
Roland secured her damaged foot in the stirrup, but the pain was too great. He removed the stirrups from the saddle, placed them in her saddle bags before putting Reginald’s shield on and mounting himself.
All this Torcan observed from his hiding place deep in the trees. The robbery had been thwarted, with devastating results. Eight men killed, most of them family, and he might have been one of them if not for his cousin’s flight drawing the knight away. Surely his cousin had made the same discovery: the boy was not as he appeared. The knight’s regard for the beaten spindle before him indicated a well-disguised female. Torcan was too far away to hear their conversation, but the tenderness displayed was revealing enough. Who were these two, and what was their secret? Elopement? It didn’t matter. The disasters of this foul day might be salvaged, with the girl. The boy, he minded himself as he watched them ride away.
There was another member of the gang who wasn’t killed and who hadn’t run away. He still clung to the tree. A lad of seven, this had been his first raid, his indoctrination to the family profession of road robbery. Small and frightened, he had been unable to jump from the tree. He held on and watched. Not part of the actual attack, he would have slid down from the tree and helped undress and rob the corpses. Things had not gone as planned. The boy had watched his father, uncle, older brother and cousins butchered. Another cousin escaped into the woods. And now no one was there for the boy. Even as nighttime fell, he wouldn’t come out of the tree. He clung doggedly. When his mother came to the field looking for him, he wouldn’t come down. His mother was seven months pregnant with yet another child, her tenth. Ten children, and now a third husband dead, a brother-in-law, son and cousin also dead. She held her apron over her face as she checked the bodies. The smell was terrible, and the crows and flies were a noisy swarm. Not a little boy among them. She scanned the scene and then slowly approached the tree. She looked up and he looked down. He wouldn’t speak, but he did climb down at her bidding. His career as a marauder was undetermined.
ASHBURY CASTLE, 12th of June
Lord Albert called a meeting in his private chambers. The arrow wound to his arse was inflamed, though the healer didn’t recommend maggots - yet. Pain and stiffness spread up his hip to his lower back, as if his 72-year old back didn’t suffer enough discomfort. Both legs were swollen and lamented the abuse by hindering his lively gait. In attendance were Eoch, the Captain of the Armory, his Marshal responsible for knights and men-at-arms, the Seanascal, and of course his Lady Wife, Mor.
“We’re here to discuss where we stand regarding this heinous siege. We’ve had much speculation and rumor regards Tiomoid U’Neill and our Ulster cousins. Tiomoid’s messenger claims Tiomoid has the might of Ulster, Denmark and the Scots Hebrides.”
Albert gave his assembled group a chance to digest this and offer any dissent or further information. There was little grumbling or gossip, as Albert expected from this disciplined group. He continued.
“We haven’t seen flags, banners or colors from Magnus U’Neill or our Ulster cousins. We’re in agreement that Tiomoid U’Neill does not represent the U’Neill tribe, yet he has somehow with great debt upon himself amassed an avaricious mercenary army. At our very gate and Dahlquin’s, we’re told.” Again, Albert waited for any comment or dissent. All his men and wife nodded their agreement.
“We’re cut off. Not a word in or out except what bias Tiomoid’s army feeds us. Are we sure of Dahlquin’s siege? Have we any way to verify the truth?”
“If I may speak, Lord?” the Marshal said, then he coughed.
“By your will, it’s why we’re here,” Albert encouraged, noting the wet, phlegmy cough that was becoming endemic in the encapsulated castle.
“We’re trapped. Besieged within our secure castle, as is our purpose currently,” the Marshal started. “Tiomoid’s men don’t appear to be under pressure from the outside. We see not a whit of support from Dahlquin, which may confirm their siege. But what of Scragmuir? Tiomoid’s messenger claims Scragmuir has joined him and even now lays siege upon Dahlquin, thus allowing Tiomoid the luxury of destroying us. Do you think that is possible?”
“Anything is possible, God or Satan willing,” Albert said, and he and all in attendance crossed themselves for protection against the naming of Satan. “He claims Scragmuir has joined Tiomoid U’Neill. But what evidence, hard evidence, is there that Lord Humphrey of Scragmuir would turn against De Burgh, FitzGilbert, Ireland? He would obliterate Dahlquin without doubt, but civil war against all Ireland and King Henry? I think not. Am I remiss in my judgment?”
The chamber was quiet save for the coughing of his Marshal and now the Captain of the Armory. Mor reached over and placed her hand upon his, then squeezed it. He glanced first at her hand, their hands, then he looked up to her face. Her expression appeared kindly. Did she wish to say something? Was there some hidden meaning? God-curse it, why were women so hard to understand? Why couldn’t they say what they meant? If she had some insight to impart, speak it.
She took a deep breath.
He wanted to shout – divulge it woman!
As if reading the frustration in his expression, she squeezed his hand again, and once more offered a kind, or wan look. It only increased his anxiety.
“My Lady Mor,” Eoch said, “it seems you would offer some comfort and encouragement for the trials we’re enduring. Your presence here is most welcome, and we all acknowledge that Ashbury Castle could not endure without the stalwart efforts of you as our most noble and gracious chatelaine, and those of our Seanascal.
God’s blood, is that what Mor was seeking? Her own self-aggrandisement in this most harrowing hour? Mor blanched. That was not the expression of a woman flattered.
“Goodness upon you, Sir Eoch, for always bestowing your gracious appreciation for my humble efforts in support of my Lord Husband and all Ashb
ury,” she said, head bowed, and Albert noted she brushed a tear away. “It is only my wish to bolster and support our Lord Albert in this most trying hour. Our Lion of Ashbury,” she said.
“We’re assembled here for the support of our liege Lord,” the Marshall said. He added, “There’s not a word or sign of Dahlquin or Scragmuir. If Scragmuir isn’t in allegiance with Tiomoid, why haven’t they ridden to our aid? If Connacht is under attack from Ulster, Scragmuir should support its own.”
“Scragmuir is pledged to support Connacht, De Burgh, FitzGilbert and Ireland. We would ride to their defense,” the Captain of the Armory said. “Wouldn’t we?” he asked for confirmation.
“We would. Scragmuir should come to our aid. But it has only been four days. They might only now be getting word of the attacks. Lord Humphrey is as cautious and thorough as I would be,” Albert said. “What would be a prudent decision for Humphrey?”
“A scouting party, mayhap, to discover the size and might of the army. A day out and back. Then a counsel, as we’re doing,” Eoch offered.
“Same with Dahlquin, if they’re not under attack,” the Marshal said.
“You’re correct, relief would be a week or more away,” Eoch commented, as the rest murmured. “And what if Lord Humphrey is gone, on progression or a hunting escapade? He may be gone a fortnight. His men would await his return before embarking on such a grand assault as our siege.”
Albert listened as each of his men had a chance to voice his opinion of whether Dahlquin was under siege and when Scragmuir would offer the mandatory relief force to defend Ashbury and, ultimately, all Connacht. For defend they must.
After consultation with Mor and the Seanascal about the available stores to sustain Ashbury through this treasonous siege which could last for months, Ashbury committed to settling in and defending the castle until Tiomoid got bored or was defeated from outside. Or until Lord Albert became bored and decided to lead the attack.
“We agree, the wells are good, the pantries adequate. Even with the lost planting season, we will survive behind these walls of stone,” Eoch confirmed, lifting his chalice.
The others lifted their cups and chalices in tribute to the Lord and Lady. Albert and Mor did the same.
“For the Glory of Ashbury!” they all shouted.
LEINSTER, 12th of June
The ride was uncomfortable, and the miles seemed endless to Eloise.
“Roland,” she said, her voice unfamiliar and nasal. Her face had such pain she could barely speak. “Artoch limps. Garth is off.” She remembered the abrasion on Garth’s face. One of the marauders had injured him. Idiots!
“We’re in Leinster, a day from FitzGilbert’s castle. Half a day if we ride all night,” Roland said, watching Garth a moment. Glowering, he studied her head to toe, then flexed his sword hand, grimacing.
“As you command,” she said, remembering Reginald’s words, 'When he says, if he says.'
“Starvation is upon me. My hand feels broken, my thigh aches. With so much fatigue upon me it’s hard to imagine how you fare. One hundred shames upon me,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes with the butts of his gloved hands. “What should we do?”
Garth and Artoch both seemed to rally, lifting their weary heads, nostrils pumping, as if the question had been posed to them.
Artoch nickered.
“Saints preserve us, that smells good,” Roland said, inhaling.
“What?” Eloise asked, trying to inhale through her blocked sinuses.
“Burned sausage and fried fish,” he answered. “Market Day!”
As Eloise and Roland entered the village, the booths and stands were already being disassembled, and the unsold goods put away. But the aroma of cooking and brew lured Roland on.
“We’re grievously hungry and in want of drink,” Roland said, approaching a wool merchant who was helping his wife pack their cart. “Any recommendations? I know it’s late.”
The merchant turned. His wife gasped.
A frightful sight they were. Roland’s dark garments were stained with blood and filth. Eloise thought she probably appeared as the recipient of some fretful punishment. She and Roland were in sharp contrast to the merriment of the villagers on market day.
“Finest pasties in Leinster,” the merchant said, “if there’s any left. Around that way,” he pointed. “Follow your nose.”
Roland thanked him then dismounted and walked his horse through the emptying stalls, carts and the startled onlookers.
“’Tis a foul wind blows to the north, and dragons,” Roland replied to the on-lookers. Eloise nodded solemnly.
Finding a merchant, Eloise crossed herself when discovering he still had food. Roland offered to trade in lieu of payment.
“What do you have, Dragon Slayer?” the merchant asked.
Roland’s grin was tired and lopsided, but he seemed well pleased with the title.
“Fresh hares,” he said, and Eloise lifted the headless bodies.
“Not in need of those now,” the merchant said, shaking his head.
Oh, if only she had her voice. Surely, she might sing an epic tale or two for their supper. What a chanson that would have been…if. But she could barely whistle for the swelling of her face. What else did she have?
“Lord,” Eloise beckoned, whispering in his ear when he got close. “I’ve an eating knife. Trade that,” she offered.
“Aye,” he said slowly, “Let’s see.”
She nearly wept for joy as Roland negotiated the knife for five pasties: three suet and onion, two egg and leek, as well as a skin bag of cider. The merchant’s wife threw in some wilted cabbages.
On market day every room, bed and pallet were full with traders. Gratefully Roland and Eloise traded the three hares for crowded space in the barn and feed for the horses.
Just as the inn was full, so too, the stable. Each stall held a horse or mule, but the stable corridor had just enough space for Garth and Artoch, hobbled. Eloise watched as one of the laborers from the inn cleared a space for Roland and her to bed down, only slightly beyond the horses’ hooves. He left an oil skin canopy for them to lay out when they were ready to sleep.
“May you have goodness,” she said to him. “And by your will, may your master have goodness, again.” She crossed herself again.
Eloise lovingly stroked around the base of Garth’s itchy ears as Roland removed her saddle. “May you have goodness and blessing, Sire,” she said, trying to make her voice warm, showing her gratitude.
Horses tended, Roland and Eloise settled in to eat and drink.
“Not a room at the inn,” Eloise mused as a big orange striped cat rubbed against her, purring. “Like Joseph and the Virgin Mary.”
“At least we aren’t being taxed,” Roland mumbled, his mouth full of pastie.
“Stables are not so bad. Warm, cozy, fresh straw and horses. And cats,” she added, as the orange feline continued his courtship. The cat would surely keep them safe from the cursed rats whose foul existence plagued human and animal alike.
Still chewing, Roland looked at her, then the persistent cat. With a finger he pushed the remaining half of his egg and leek pastie into his mouth. After swallowing hard, he said, “Full of muck, vermin and stench.”
“Hmm,” she sighed, chewing herself. “But not in the Bible and not in my father’s stables.” She took another bite of the suet and onion pie. Juice ran down her chin and between her fingers. If Beast and Dragon were here, they would lick her clean, but the orange cat did his best, his purrs becoming a chortle. She wished she could taste more, but aroma and flavor were muted by her battered sinuses.
She held her hand out and Roland passed the skin bag with cider and willow bark added. She gulped it down, willing herself to feel better, to heal.
“Wish I had some assassin’s brew,” she muttered, thinking of the mystic effects.
“What?” Roland said, choking on his food, bits of crust on his lips. He coughed, pounding his chest. The cat scooted away and stared at him fr
om a safer distance.
“Assassin’s brew. Powerful medicine from the Holy Land,” Eloise said.
“Powerful indeed,” Roland said, still coughing. “You brew it?”
“Well, we grow the plant. Dry the buds and leaves. It’s possible to get the medicine from rubbing the plants, but a nuisance to scrape the resin from your hands. Easier to grind the vegetation and add to brew or spirits. Potent smoke, too.” She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the effect - without a care of the pain. First the oblivion and then a night's undisturbed sleep, what a blessing that would be.
“You grow it? In Dahlquin?”
“We grow it,” she said, wondering why he was so surprised. Originally from Moorish traders, the plant had a vigorous habit. “There’s nothing better for massive injury, pain, it soothes and emboldens.”
“Makes men feel invincible. Assassins,” Roland said as the cat approached him then returned to Eloise, purring as if receiving a long-lost friend.
“Defying death, feeling immortal. It enslaves,” she murmured. Belly full, exhaustion was taking the edge off her pain and she was talking with both eyes closed.
“Your Uncle Reggie!” Roland said. “Bleeding Saints.” He snorted, causing him to cough again. “That explains it.”
Eloise glanced at him through half closed eyes - well, one eye was swollen shut.
He lifted the skin bag containing the cider and finished it. “Assassin’s Brew, of course, how else could he have carried on?” Roland paused. “Heroic. Cheating death.”
Roland seemed almost giddy with the revelation.
“Heroic. But he was so without the brew,” she said, tears welling, even in her swollen eye. Would things have been different if she had had some Assassin’s brew in her pouch? Would he have had the strength to carry on, be here now? “May you have the blessings of one thousand saints and more, Uncle,” she whispered, crossing herself over and over until the tears stopped. His death, his sacrifice. How could she atone? Duty, devotion. And love.
“Now I wish we had some,” said Roland, his tone warm. “A few hours relief would be grand.”
