Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Torcan saw his simple plan to take the bitch was very complicated. He wasn’t in familiar territory. He didn’t know where he was, from a strategic outlook. He was a piss-poor rider. Even now, his arse ached, and he resented the nag below him. He scratched at his itchy neck. How would he transport the bitch? How would he contact her people for a ransom? For a sale? She still had value in bartered flesh, for as long as she lasted. Family or comrades were not here--yet. He took risks. Without family. Without partners.

  Faces, a voice, a mighty laugh clouded his mind. Good moments had existed, when Torcan belonged. That knight and his bitch had slaughtered them. There wasn’t need to mourn. Grief was weakness. Risk was his trade. Hatred made Torcan strong. He was planning again.

  And why just the bitch? Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Because he thought small. In dirt floor taverns and caves. The knight might be of equal value to the cunt. Who were they and why should they be killed when they had value as hostages or ransom?

  He felt a flush. Intoxication. Boldness. This time he couldn’t keep the edges of his mouth from lifting. He must capture the girl. That was his privilege. Then, with the contract settled between Seamus and Broccan, he might well barter the girl to them. There was enough reward between them, plus the spoils of the kill. First, capture the girl.

  VILLAGE, 13th of June

  She staggered with the import of Roland’s news: they were trapped in this village for another night. The eastern road to FitzGilbert was impassable. Travel in any direction was hazardous with the rain and mud.

  “Grim tidings,” he said. “I don’t like any of our choices.” His voice was deep and rigid. “If we stay here, we risk Tiomu’s men catching us.” His eyes narrowed on her, her injuries, her weakness. “I don’t favor our chances. We can risk riding north or south. It’s out of our way, adding time and miles to our journey. The streams may still be swollen, and we would be worse off, mayhap sleeping in the rain. Not a way of knowing if Tiomu’s men pass through, waiting to ambush us.”

  Eloise trembled with that prospect. It was scary enough looking over her shoulder day and night without the dread of never knowing where an attack might spring. Another trap, another beating, death.

  “You have a say. Have I overlooked anything? Another option? What do you think? Ride or wait?”

  They had discussed the options, all grim. Ride or wait?

  “Wait,” she agreed.

  “If Master Bryan will let us stay.”

  The public room was crowded and boisterous as she and Roland entered. Unlike the gaiety of market day, these travelers hadn’t planned on staying, their travels disrupted by rain, sloggy roads and a wagon that got caught in the river, then overturned, causing the blockage and flooding. Many in the room recounted their exaggerated stories of the massive flood to anyone who would listen, and Eloise noted the inn workers were the most attentive, overhearing two of them: “Last night the Dragon Slayer, tonight Noah.” All this validated Roland’s account.

  She and Roland approached the harried inn keeper, holding court as it were, at a board pouring cups of ale.

  “Dragon Slayer,” he said, “we’re beyond full. The village is swamped.”

  “Your village is in crisis, as are we. My fortune remains the same,” Roland said. “I’m capable of guarding your stable again. Same as last night, all we ask is floor space.”

  “I can work the kitchen,” Eloise offered, remembering the noise of food preparation.

  “A cripple?” the inn keeper scoffed.

  “No,” Roland said, gripping her arm, his slip to English revealing tension.

  “I’m not crippled. I just can’t walk. But I can chop, skin, peel. By your will, my Lord,” she implored Roland. “By your will, Master Bryan. My Lord is wet and must dry by your fire. I will work hard. You need help.”

  “I said not.” Roland gave her a shake, glaring down at her.

  “It will be warm in the kitchen,” she said in a soft voice, ignoring the rude shake.

  “Can you skin a hare as well as you gut?” asked a woman, stepping next to the inn keeper, a small child on her hip.

  “Indeed I can. Skin it, clean it, bone it, stew it,” she answered, nodding to the stern inn keeper. “My Lord and his horse have hunger and will not sleep in the rain,” she said, turning to face Roland. “I must,” she whispered, “By your will.”

  “Blathin,” the inn keeper called. A girl ran to them, head bowed. “Take this boy to the back, for skinning and gutting,” he said, shaking his head.

  Roland still gripped her arm.

  “Then back to the tally,” the woman said.

  The girl, Blathin, cringed then nodded her head.

  Tally, like a ledger, it was a dreaded word and Eloise cringed too. Stupid girl.

  “I can help with that too,” she heard herself say. “I can read.” That she could, though arithmetic plagued her. The foul, miscreant numbers changing shape and places, sometimes springing off the tablet entirely to float around before her eyes, taunting her to tears as her parents, Uncle Reggie and the Seanascal scolded and pleaded for her to pay attention and not let her mind wander. But it was the numbers that wandered. “I will help.” Roland’s grip loosened on her arm.

  “What a day, a stupid girl and a cripple.” The inn keeper shook his head. “Hares first, off with you.”

  “I’ll gut the hares,” Roland said. “They can attend the numbers.”

  “You may not, by your goodness, Dragon Slayer.”

  Roland gave the inn keeper a wry smile. “And why not? You think I can’t wield a blade?”

  The inn keeper returned the wry smile. “I’ve assurance you can, but you’re too big. Two hands to their four. Sit by the fire and dry, mayhap I need your blade later. Foul weather makes for foul tempers. Can I count on you, Dragon Slayer?”

  Eloise and Blathin were not in a warm kitchen, but under a leaking oil cloth. Beneath another oil cloth was a large metal cooking rack supporting two large cauldrons and two smaller ones. Two boys kept the fires burning low and steady. In the rain was a wooden crate packed tight with live, frightened hares, some already dead from injury or suffocation. Eloise was gripped by pain and panic. Were she and Roland trapped in such a cage? Garth and Artoch? Not, she commanded. Remember who you are. Dahlquin.

  “This suffering must end, the spirit of these humble hares must be honored,” Eloise said, kneeling down and placing her hand upon the tortuous crate. Blessed Saint Mary and Mother Goddess of us all, goodness upon You, the lives and flesh of Your beloved hares. We honor Your charity and will show mercy. Time was wasting.

  Blathin was not a stupid girl in this venture, and they were soon partners in slaughter, finding unspoken rhythm as they extracted each fighting hare one by one, wrung the necks and proceeded until a stack of lifeless hares lay before them.

  That done, they hung one hare at a time from the posts provided for such work.

  “Blathin, do you save the hides for tanning?” Eloise asked, before tearing into the skin.

  “Tanner boys.” Blathin pointed with her knife to a hook on the back wall of the inn.

  Eloise sliced down each leg, tugging the fur hide away from the scant little hare. It was still warm, life so recently departed. May you have goodness, blessed hare, she prayed once again. It’s God’s Plan and the Great Mother’s. Blathin was near done with her hare, and Eloise rose to the challenge.

  “Blathin, you have hardly spoken,” Eloise prompted, starting the third hare, trying once again to engage the girl in conversation. the girl mostly nodded and when she did speak it was only to agree. Roland would like her. Her face bore the blemished complexion of a girl near bleeding age, and she confirmed she was thirteen. She was neither unattractive nor deformed, but was cowed and sullen.

  They gutted and skinned the creatures, their cold, wet fingers becoming as red as the flesh. Blathin was fast, already two hares ahead of Eloise.

  “Blathin, you’re a smart girl.”

  Blathin st
opped, her knife still. She glared up at Eloise. She had one puffy eye, and Eloise knew she had been struck fair hard.

  “Are you mocking me?” she asked, not returning to her work, the blade still poised, though Eloise noted the tremor in her hand.

  “I am not, you are a smart girl. I’ve just met you yet look how well we work together. By your will, believe me, you’re a smart girl.”

  Blathin sniffed, Eloise smiled and they both returned to the carcasses hanging before them.

  The oil cloth flap covering the doorway to the back of the inn opened.

  Blathin’s mother, the mistress of the inn stepped out. She looked at the empty crate, saw the hanging carcasses and finished ones on the table.

  “You aren’t done yet?” she said, scowling.

  Blathin shuddered but said nothing, working all the harder.

  “Blathin is a smart girl,” Eloise, said. “She is a hard worker, and I’m racing to match her,” Eloise added.

  The woman stared at Eloise, then her daughter and back at Eloise. The child on her hip fussed in the damp air. “Chop them fine and add them to the stew,” she said laying down two cleavers.

  “This is fast work, Mistress,” Eloise said. “I have labored in my father’s service, and that of Lord Roland,” she added. “We’re near done, and I pray you goodness for the opportunity. I bless you and your house for this chance. Blathin serves you well.”

  The woman nodded, then returned indoors.

  “It’s true,” Eloise said whether Blathin was listening or not. “This work distracts me from my pain and worry. It’s not so grand as riding a horse,” Eloise fought back the sniffles, thinking of her noble Garth and how much work was left to do. “It’s good to help,” she said, as she sliced and eased the fur coat away from another hare.

  “Mayhap you’d be faster without that bow and quiver in your way.” Blathin spoke the longest complete sentence Eloise could recall. “What happened, your face?”

  Eloise paused, thinking the best way to avoid discussing the roadside attack.

  “Hmm, let’s say, this is what comes from not minding my father’s ledger. Tally,” she corrected.

  The oil cloth flap flew open again.

  “El,” Roland called. He scrutinised the covered workspace and peered into the rain beyond. “This isn’t the kitchen and it isn’t warm.”

  “It is not, Lord. But it’s warm work. Pleasure upon me to see you drying your clothes,” she said, seeing he had removed the surcoat, padded gambeson and hauberk, wearing only his linen tunic and boots, and girdle with sword and dagger.

  He snorted. “You’re incorrigible.”

  Eloise sniffed. She had expected, hoped he would say May you have goodness. Incorrigible, impertinent, impudent. Inconsolable. She glanced at Blathin. They were smart girls, not rude ones.

  “May you have goodness, my Lord, I will add that to the list. I have the finest teacher in all Ireland.”

  There was a long pause. Roland would like Blathin very much, Eloise reflected. Damn it, Roland.

  “It pleasures me to hear you say that,” he said. “Goodness upon you. Hurry up.”

  Eloise and Blathin finished the last hares, seventeen all total. That would stretch out a mighty banquet stew for the paying inn patrons.

  Roland paced the crowded interior of the inn, humid with anxious, naked men, all their garments strung across the room in an attempt to dry them for the next day’s full labor. Some laughed, all cursed, so it was in rainy Ireland. Wet. The women, partially clothed, huddled in the corner beyond the three lines of clothing. Eloise was a problem. A big, fucking, unrelenting problem. She wasn’t welcome with the women, and he didn’t want her on this side of the curtain. How could something so small cause such disorder? He needed to check on her again, huddled in the blanket in the stable with the village scum. That was wrong. They were laborers displaced from their dwellings by the swollen stream. Still, Eloise didn’t belong with them. God damned, Satan’s piss rain. He pounded the wall with a clenched fist as he passed. “Roland, you look like a caged animal,” she had said earlier, “where are we to go if not here? You said the road east to FitzGilbert was blocked. We agreed it was too dangerous to risk a venture north or south. Best to stay put. Have you come to a different conclusion?” He suppressed a snarl. Foolish girl, she didn’t grasp the danger. Even after yesterday’s crippling beating--he shuddered with the foul memory, near blind and lame--she didn’t show the modicum of fear he expected she should. Mayhap the pain damaged her humors and caused this foolish thinking. Believing she could climb on the roof and shoot Tiomu’s men if they appeared. “I can shoot,” she had said, “you’ve seen me.” Aye, a heron and hares, not men. Not armed men hunting you down. “I sleep with my bow and arrows.” You do that, he had said in angry resentment, sounding more sarcastic than he meant. The day had started bad and become untenable.

  Blessed Savior, this inn was indefensible. What if? No, he would find a way to protect her.

  Eloise was wrapped up in one of the blankets, under Reggie’s shield. How could she sleep with all the grumbling and snoring in the stable? He crossed himself, praying to God, Jesus, the Virgin Mother and all the Saints she sleep safely through the night and he deliver her to- He stopped, unable to form High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert’s name. He would deliver her to safety. He couldn’t think beyond that.

  Back in the public room, ale flowed. Cups and bowls were shared with hare stew or spirits. He was a stranger to this village, these people and their way of life. Eloise was probably right, based on his information of course: Tiomu’s men could not arrive this impassable night. All was secure. Some of the travelers got drunk, others bragged of whoring, the villagers cursed and hailed life. In these, Roland was no stranger - to drink and whore and curse and beat some strawman to dust. But he was alone in his confusion, isolated on this mission. This night he had no brothers-in-arms, no unit to share the risk and worry. No one whose wise counsel he could seek. For years High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert had been that man. Should be that man. Now he loomed as a rival. Roland was a knight; he did two things. Tonight, he could do neither.

  This was all her fault. He was inconsolable.

  VILLAGE, 14th of June

  Her ankle pained, her nose was running. They rode without speaking. So much time had been lost. A whole day and night in the village, Roland pacing the inn and stable like a caged animal, frustrated the space was so indefensible. Unusually surly, unwilling to listen to anything she might say, unable to look at her, after telling her the bruising had come and she was black and blue as the stormy sky. After an early start, they were within half a day of High Lord FitzGilbert. The sound of his name had taken on a mythical proportion: safety, salvation, resurrection. Trepidation still plagued her soul; Gerald FitzGilbert may be none of those things. Yet, despite all this, Roland had found the resource to make repairs to Uncle Reggie’s shield and once again, she wore it on her back. Roland was familiar with the countryside and recognized the villages and estates. There remained long stretches of fields and orchards that were sparsely populated.

  Eloise carried her bow in her hand, ready should anything worthy of trade or a meal cross their path. Her hand was swollen, her fingers clumsy. With one good eye, would she be able to shoot accurately? Cara, she thought, stroking the riser with her thumb. A familiar shadow moved at her side and she smiled down at one of her hounds, the other couldn’t be far behind. She gasped with the emptiness and felt the tears flood her eyes. The hounds were not there. Beast and Dragon were dead, lost to her forever. Yet all she saw through her tears were her beloved, wire-haired hounds, tongues lolling as they joyously trotted at her side. Beast, Dragon she sobbed. The vision so vivid beside her.

  “Don’t cry,” Roland said, not looking at her. “With your will.”

  He was right. It was weak and betrayed her identity. But her grief was not so biddable.

  They ambled on, he looking away and she fighting back her tears and the images of those lost. She lift
ed her bow, aiming, familiarizing herself with her limitations.

  Eloise grieved yet again, knowing many of the fields of Dahlquin lay unattended while the siege raged. Bent from the heavy rains, beautiful blue flowers of flax bobbed with the weight of bees. Another field, a later planting was green and calm. Had Tiomu and his men pushed south? What of the women and their families who had fed Roland and herself that first morning? Were they safe, were those lands still productive?

  PINGBEE, 14th of June

  Eloise couldn’t get over all the people coming and going. Roland said this was quiet compared with Dublin or London or any other large city or precinct. And if not the farm upon village upon farm, Eloise had never seen so many postings: Trespass Forbidden, Hunting Forbidden, Poaching Forbidden.

  It was a delight to pass through woods and meadows without overzealous postings, revealing a likelihood for hares or birds. As soon as they made the decision to stop and hunt, a fat grouse took wing. Bow drawn, Eloise followed the bird as it circled in closer to them. She waited. With her left eye swollen shut and her injured ankle throwing her balance off, she missed. Before Roland could be disappointed or complain, she released a second arrow. Wounded, the bird descended some distance away.

  The air erupted with curses.

  “You fool! Bumbling idiot!” came the sharp reprimands. “That’s our grouse, don’t touch it! How dare you try and steal our kill.”

  Roland rode next to Eloise and waited for the angered voice to reveal himself. Roland drew his sword, keeping it next to his right leg. Not wanting to be caught off guard again, he didn’t wish to be perceived as overly aggressive either. Eloise pulled another arrow from her quiver and nocked.

  A youth stood in the meadow, perhaps a squire by his attire. A knight of about thirty-five years rode out from the woods.