Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “May you be blessed, my Lord, I have grievous appreciation upon me,” Eloise said. What more could she say or do at this bleak hour?

  “Me too, appreciation,” he said moving close before her. “Let’s have your cross,” Roland said, reaching for the leather thong at her neck.

  Eloise tensed, drawing a deep breath as she stood tall, drawing her shoulders back. Whether as defensive posturing or vanity, Eloise tilted her head to hide her battered left side.

  With delicate fingers he eased her wooden cross up from under her surcoat then held it in his palm, studying it, caressing it with his thumb.

  Eloise let her breath out, easing into him, the leather thong loose at her unblemished throat.

  Wooden cross still in his hand, Roland placed his thumb at the base of her throat, tracing the curve of her neck, until his thumb rested on her pulse. She swallowed. Once again, Roland’s thumb followed along her jaw line, as he did when first they met. Thumb hooked in the soft spot under her chin, he turned her face.

  She heard his intake of breath and felt the tremor in his thumb. A mirror wasn’t necessary; his reaction validated her disfigurement. She sucked in her swollen bottom lip with a mighty gasp.

  “I have such shame upon me,” he whispered. “So much sorrow.” He shook, and muttered something. She felt his hand rest against her face, the wooden cross on her cheek, his fingertips extending into her hairline.

  “Heavenly Father, another day, another journey. I beseech the healing Saints and your benevolent kindness to ease my companion’s suffering. The lesson is well taken. I shall not be so careless. In the name of the Father, the Son and Saint Alexis, bless and keep us safe. Amen,” Roland said completing the fastest mass of this journey.

  Roland broke the stale bread in half and handed her a piece. She waited for him to divide the cheese before she tried to nibble at it. Discomfort masked her hunger and pain prevented her opening her mouth or chewing. She must eat. Retrieving the cup from the saddle bags she broke her bread into pieces, put them in the cup and poured some wine over it. A piece of cheese rested between cheek and gum. Roland savored each small bite, with a sip of wine between. It didn’t last long and he got up to attend his horse.

  “Artoch,” Roland muttered. “Why, in the name of Epona.” Roland put Artoch’s right fore hoof down. Standing, he sighed and put his hand on the crest of Artoch’s neck. He wriggled it back and forth, loosening the horse’s muscles, then ran his hand down Artoch’s neck over the wither, making a few circular strokes on his horse’s rump and finishing with some gentle scratching at the tail.

  “He is losing a shoe,” Roland said to her inquisitive look. Again he stroked his black horse. “It was good last night. The shoe, not us,” he said to Eloise. “You catch it on something?” he asked the horse. They both shook their heads. “Damn,” Roland said to the horse. “Let’s see the rest.” Sighing, he continued cleaning Artoch’s hooves. “Would you-” he paused, and then looked up at her. “You can’t walk, can you?”

  It didn’t feel like a question.

  “I can,” she said, limping to him. Waiting for him to speak, Eloise leaned against Garth. He lifted his head and turned an ear to her.

  “I need…first…” he sighed then closed his eyes. “I need to curse. Kick something. Drink ‘til my mind is numb. And-” He rubbed his neck then stretched and she heard a drum beat of cracking. Dark circles of fatigue blackened his eyes as surely as a fight would. “Drink your wine and bread,” he said. “While I make inquiries about a smith, you can assess what we have left.” He handed her his leather pouch with the few remaining coins.

  Eloise took inventory. Roland had a few coins of large value. They had two grand horses they wouldn’t part with, two saddles and pads, saddle bags, a blanket, cup one skin bag, sewing kit, chamois, Reggie’s shield, Roland’s sword, they each had daggers, his eating knife, the clothes on their backs. Cara and her arrows. Roland said they were a day from High Lord FitzGilbert’s castle. They could part with the blanket, the cup, and she didn’t need the saddle or pad.

  Roland returned wet and gloomy.

  “The inn keeper, Master Bryan, like the Lord of New Pembrokeshire, wouldn’t take the coin. Said it was too large and he didn’t need a Dragon Slayer as a partner.”

  This had been his dilemma across Ireland, once the small coins were spent: he was rich and poor at once.

  “It’s pissing down rain. I begged Master Bryan to let you, Garth and our gear stay in the barn.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” she protested. “I’ll come with you. We’ve been rained on before.”

  “You’re injured, broken. I don’t want sickness upon you,” he said, putting Artoch’s headstall on.

  She didn’t need reminding, and the pain in her face kept her from disputing the obvious.

  “You can see the farrier from outside the stable. Call or wave for me.” He led Artoch to the double doors, then turned. “Wrap up in the blanket. Rest. Don’t move unless you need me. We’ll leave as soon as I finish with Artoch.” He stroked Artoch’s neck, opened one of the stable doors and they walked into the rain, closing the door behind them.

  Garth looked up. He snorted and bellowed once to his departing friend, Artoch. Eloise called his name and rubbed his withers. He looked to her, then touched her with his nose and returned to the abundance of food still on the floor.

  Artoch needed his shoe repaired. She wouldn’t dissent. She stroked Garth, examining the abrasion on his face. Better she be crippled than Garth or Artoch. Fortuna’s Wheel had blessed them on this travail, they had survived so much. Eloise crossed herself and gave a prayer of thanks to Fortuna and Epona. Once more she ran her hands down each of Garth’s legs, reassuring herself he was sound and strong. Your legs are my legs. We move as one.

  Impatience nagged at her as she wrapped the blanket around herself and pulled Reggie’s shield against her to hold in the warmth, then tried to find comfort leaning against their gear. They needed to leave this village and be at FitzGilbert’s castle - only one day away. The doors rattled with a rainy gust. Neither of them had oil cloth cloaks to protect them on the road. What fate dictated that this singular, wet morning she would be trapped, safe and dry in a stable? Rest. Wait for the weather: Then all the faster to FitzGilbert’s. The orange cat returned and purred her to sleep.

  She woke to stable doors banging open. The cat fled.

  Two workers brought in three wet, muddy horses. Garth studied them, head up, ears pricked forward. I am the stallion, his posture said. Two soggy men followed the horses, complaining about the miserable riding and the flooding.

  Head pounding, Eloise watched and listened as the men untacked the horses and placed the wet gear on racks. Hay was thrown in for the horses. Eloise shrieked as rats scurried around; two ran up her blanket, across her chest, to her shoulder and then up her neck and into her cap. Heart pounding, flush with the heat of terror, she felt them clawing, heard the squealing growls, the pounding surf and salt and the ravenous, demonic rats tearing her apart. This wasn’t the beach. She gripped the writhing cap from her head. Mother of God, now what? She shook the cap and a rat stuck fast like a rock in a sling. The dreaded thing would surely crawl up her arm and into her clothing to chew her heart out. She flung the cap against the wall once, and again. Turning the cap inside out with trembling fingers she took the twitching rat by the tail and threw it to the center of the stable. The men cursed and lamented, unaware of her presence. With a whimper, she pulled the offensive cap back on her head then patted under the blanket to flush any hiding rats. From over the stall panels, she sought calm watching the thin clouds of steam rising off the warm horses. Roland, I told you rats put fear upon me. She clutched the blanket to her, wishing he was there.

  “More coming,” someone shouted from outside.

  “I agree, best get out of the way, one of the men said to his travel partner.

  “And lay claim to our bread and board,” said the other. The two men left.

&
nbsp; Two more muddy horses were lead in, followed by a torrent of curses as the workers labored at their chores, becoming as wet and muddy as the horses and gear.

  Where is Roland? Shouldn’t he be back by now? She couldn’t be sure the time of day in the dim stable. Warm and awake from the rat attack, Eloise contemplated her next move. Pain kept her wrapped in the blanket as she was. How rainy was it, had she heard the word flood? The inn was full of voices, clattering and laughter and curses. She thought of a blazing hearth, a boisterous kitchen, cauldrons bubbling, spits rotating - would such an inn have spits? Would there be pies and pasties? Warm, soft bread to- Hunger stabbed her. There would be a banquet for the wet, weary, paying travelers. Not for you, not this day. Foolish to dwell on it. There will be food with High Lord FitzGilbert. But the ache of hunger wasn’t listening.

  “Stupid girl,” a woman screeched. “Pay attention.”

  Eloise heard heavy footsteps, then crying.

  “Get to work and stay out of sight,” a man commanded.

  Eloise tried to listen, to glean what was happening. So many voices, so much noise and none of it made sense - and worse, Roland’s voice wasn’t among them.

  The stable doors burst open. Eloise roused. She had fallen asleep again.

  “El,” Roland called, his voice clipped and short.

  “I’m coming,” she said, thinking how lazy and ill prepared she was. She should have been watching for him and had Garth ready to go.

  “Stay,” he said, hand up. Artoch and Garth exchanged greetings as Roland put his black horse in the stall next to Garth.

  Wet hair stuck to his face and neck. He was probably soaked clear through to his braises once more. The unbidden image of Roland naked at their first fire caused her cheeks to flush. He squatted down next to her. She couldn’t read his expression. Once again, he was the impassive warrior as he assessed her head to boots, warm and dry under the blanket, while he labored in the rain. Shame washed over her.

  “My Lord,” she said.

  He tilted his head and raised a finger. She was silent as he scanned the stable, closed doors at both ends. The five new horses ate the food before them, while Garth and Artoch, without fresh food, pawed the floor and shifted their weight from side to side, then tossed their heads demanding a portion. Her heart ached for their hunger and Roland’s. Apology postponed, her mind raced with questions. Shouldn’t they be tacking up? The day was near spent. His silence wore on her as heavily as his absence had. He didn’t reveal discomfort, alarm or emotion, but he couldn’t mask the lines and pigment of fatigue.

  He inhaled, preparing to speak.

  “We have much to consider.” He looked about the stable again. More voices shouted outside and in. Roland closed his eyes, grimaced. “Blasted rain, damn road closed, this day lost. Not an inch closer to FitzGilbert.” He paused; lips pursed. “Hunger.” A large drop of water hung, then dripped from his nose. “First things first,” he said, looking at her. “Did you miss me?”

  What? His stoic expression softened into a hopeful smirk. Eloise wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. His black eyes gleamed, demanding the answer from her. What about the rain? The flood, the lost time? You’re drenched and can’t travel like that. Of all the silly questions. But she knew the answer.

  “Speechless in your humility?” he murmured.

  She was, searching for words that didn’t exist.

  “It would please me to hear you say it.”

  Her mouth fell open. There was so much more to say. I missed you, of course she did, but it went beyond that. The question evoked such emotions.

  “El, it’s an easy question – you missed me, or you didn’t,” he said with a snort. “You can write a song about it later.”

  She let the blanket fall back, and reached out to stroke his wet, bristly cheek, the one she had shaved but a day, two days ago. Emboldened by her action, the words came, “I was inconsolable.”

  He caught her hand, warm and dry, his cold and wet.

  The stable doors burst open to more voices and horses. Roland pulled away, rising before she could touch his face.

  “Wait here,” Roland said.

  “I will not,” she said, clambering to her feet. “We have much to consider, remember?” She slipped Cara over her shoulder.

  Roland gave her a wary look. “Who takes a bow indoors?” he asked.

  Eloise continued fastening her girdle and quiver before answering. “Would you leave your sword?”

  “Of course not.”

  The tone of his voice revealed it was not the answer of the impassive warrior.

  “We’ll hobble the mares outside!” one of the muddy workers shouted over the noise, as the mares squealed, and their two stallions pranced in their stalls.

  “More prayers to Saint Alexis,” Roland said, squeezing her a bit too hard, then supporting her as she limped beside him. “As we beg once more for a roof over our heads.”

  “Is there a flood? What happened? Artoch’s shoe?” the questions tumbled from her as she limped to the inn with him.

  LEINSTER, 13th of June

  “I must piss and more,” Broccan said, rain pouring down. “Let’s pull off here, with the cover of trees. Water and grazing for the horses. Seamus?” he added, though Seamus knew it was rhetorical. The knight and boy could be minutes away, just around the bend. Piss first, then kill.

  All the riders dismounted to relieve themselves while the horses took a needed rest. Once relieved, Seamus and Broccan stood with Torcan. Seamus yawned and rubbed his shoulder. Had he slept at all since the siege began? Now this rain.

  “Seamus, what say I tow you along? Get some sleep,” Broccan said, yawning as well.

  They rode day and night chasing the knight and boy, taking turns tying themselves to their horses, attempting to sleep while being towed by the others. God fuck, he was tired and miserable. Torcan was talking.

  “You want them dead?” Torcan confirmed.

  Seamus and Broccan both nodded.

  “I want the boy - alive,” Torcan said, “to pay a debt. He won’t trouble you, sirs. Not trouble. I’ll dispose of him,” he paused, “in my own way for the pains he caused.” Torcan watched, waiting for a hint of the men’s feelings, Seamus thought. The man had a thick, protruding brow that shadowed his deep-set eyes, armored like a battle-aged boar still in his killing prime. “I work. I steal and provide all you need. All of it. I’ve earned the boy and more.”

  “You’ll never take the boy yourself,” Seamus reminded him.

  “Nor will you.”

  Torcan waited. Seamus nodded.

  “These outlaws we pursue,” Seamus started, “must never reach High Lord FitzGilbert. Never. They must be silenced.”

  Torcan exhaled through his nose, a snort and sigh combined. Seamus watched as Torcan’s expression altered just slightly. His glower reflected his concentration, if only for a moment.

  “Two things I tell you,” Torcan said, “and mayhap we agree.”

  Seamus nodded.

  “First, the knight. He fights hard to protect the lad. Don’t know if they be father and son, brothers or what. He is relentless. You saw his work, the slaughter on the road.” Torcan waved his arm in the direction they had come. In the short time Torcan had been with them, Seamus knew Torcan was capable of greater cruelty. “Give me the boy,” Torcan continued, his glowering gaze never leaving Seamus, “I promise the boy will never be seen or heard from again. He will vanish. By my hand. That’s all I ask,” Torcan said, lowering his eyes, a gesture Seamus couldn’t remember receiving from him.

  “That slaughter,” Seamus said, “who were they? Why do you care?”

  Torcan kept his eyes down. Torcan’s unwashed hair bristled from his skull to his neck. The rain pouring down the back of his cloak resembled raised hackles.

  Seamus waited.

  “My family,” Torcan growled. “Butchered.”

  Broccan snorted. “Butchered, while attempting a robbery, I think.”

  “R
obbery pleases you now, my Lord,” Torcan answered. Seamus could hear the contempt and imagine the sneer.

  “The boy dead,” Broccan confirmed.

  “The boy dead,” Torcan agreed, raising his eyes to glower at Broccan. “After he pays the debt owed.”

  Broccan licked his bottom lip, his grin turning to a sneer to match Torcan’s.

  “After he pays the debt owed,” Seamus said.

  “There is such fucking weariness upon me, chasing these two bastards - you can’t butcher them fast enough for my revenge,” Broccan said. “Better still, tie them to a great turning wheel and let them die of exhaustion. Fucking cow turds.”

  “I’ll work it out of him, he’ll naught be seen again.” Torcan raised a clenched fist, embedded with dirt and grime to match the lines and scars on his face. “That I promise,” Torcan said, a cruel grin severing his face. “You kill the knight. I kill the boy.”

  This wasn’t the first time Seamus had made a bargain with the Devil. But Torcan - could he be the last?

  Back in the saddle, Torcan reviewed his conversation and his circumstance.

  Torcan took risks. He was a marauder, a thief and murderer. It was his family trade. He labored, fought and prayed for success. He lived it all. But he lived on the outskirts. His band was unwelcomed in all but the most savage of places. It was all he knew - until now.

  Torcan had taken a risk. He sensed opportunity. Without a sure plan he threw in with these travelling mercenaries. Never had he ventured from Meath. Never had he ridden a horse. Often, he allowed himself to speculate.

  Travelling with these men gave Torcan access to greater wealth to rob with more frequency. These well-armed men were not turned away, not shunned from village to village. While they were welcomed in to transact business, Torcan stole to the back, robbing what he could and remembering what he might return for later. He identified easy prey upon the road and with the five, armed men it was all the easier to strip travelers bare. Robbery by cover of honor: the thought made him laugh.