by Anne Beggs
“That’s our grouse, been stalking for hours,” the knight exclaimed, challenge rising in his voice. He wasn’t intimidated by the rough, blood-stained appearance of Roland or Eloise.
“Dead by our arrow,” replied Roland, not willing to submit too quickly, but not wanting a fight either.
“It's ours. If we hadn't flushed it, you’d have nothing to shoot at,” the knight scowled, challenging them as his squire continued searching for the bird.
Fucking discourteous arse. Roland swallowed his pride and fighting spirit.
“Of course, we’re happy to have assisted you,” Roland replied as honourably as possible.
Angered by the polite dismissal, the grumpy knight persisted.
“Don’t need your help, don’t try and steal our meal,” he said in his harsh voice.
This was beyond fucking discourtesy. This knight was rude. Roland longed to teach him a lesson, but his responsibility to Eloise kept him quiet. He fumed inside. Not good with words, he preferred to let his sword speak for him. El Muerte Rojo had amazing eloquence.
Vulgarities ran through Roland’s mind as he fought for a way to maintain his honor and get out of a confrontation. Enough time had been lost, good people were dying at the siege. It pressed on him like a weight, only moving forward lessened the burden.
“Take the damn fowl,” Roland finally answered. Eloquent?
Cranky and spoiling for a fight to release his frustrations, the knight was relentlessly impolite. Roland, cranky and spoiling to be left alone was relentlessly polite. The tension built, dragon’s breath, ready to burst into flame.
“I had it, until this thief came along,” the squire chided from the meadow.
“I’m not a thief,” Eloise snapped.
“Enough,” Roland said looking at Eloise. He turned back to the knight. “With our sincerest apologies, take the bird,” he grimaced. “El, let’s go.”
“If you can find it,” Eloise sneered to the squire. Garth followed her energy and pivoted to face the squire.
“El,” Roland reprimanded, fighting to keep his calm. But she ignored him. Her attention was on the squire.
“How is it you’ve come to carry the shield of Sir Reginald?” the knight asked with a sneer. “Too cocky for his own good. Seems fitting a boy should have deprived him of such a banner,” he added in a mocking tone.
Spinning Garth around, Eloise took the bait. She would not tolerate insults to her beloved uncle. This was a siege upon Dahlquin honor. Hunger, fatigue, grief and flaming humors gripped her, stripping her of reason. She wanted to lash out, and for something to go her way on this journey. How dare he talk to her that way?
“He was a great man and I bear his shield with pride. You speak ill of a good and noble knight, so much the less for you,” she said. Someone had to suffer, someone must be punished, and the slander of these two made them targets of her erupting rage.
“El,” Roland warned.
“He was a lap dog of the Dahlquins, nothing more,” the knight proclaimed, chest out, lines etched deeply around his hard eyes. “Probably cuckolded his brother,” he scoffed. “Bedded the Sorceress of Dahlquin, I hear.”
“You lie!” seethed Eloise, tears welling. Her mother was not evil, and never did she lay with Uncle Reggie.
“I lie?” the knight chided, a big smile spreading across his face, accepting her insult as the challenge he had been trying to provoke.
“Pardon my page’s exuberance,” Roland scowled at Eloise. “He is young and impertinent. I will reprimand him shortly. By your will, enjoy the grouse with our compliments,” Roland said through clenched teeth.
“He is often impertinent, I see,” sneered the knight. He seemed to study Eloise’s beaten countenance. “Impudent knave, just what I’d expect.”
“You have insulted a great knight, apologize,” Eloise insisted. She sat tall in her saddle, every fiber of her being enraged.
“Be thankful I don’t relieve you of the shield,” he added.
Eloise lifted Cara, pushing the bow forward and drawing the nock of the arrow back, taking dead aim at his face. The knight was in easy range. Garth stood still and solid beneath her. This is the risk I take.
The knight stared into her drawn arrow and Eloise marvelled at how interesting a face looked with an arrow where the nose should be. The nose, between the eyes, even the ear or jaw, she could make this shot. Would the entire arrow penetrate his skull and exit the back? Neither she nor the knight moved. Do it, do it, Dahlquin, Dahlquin, she heard the voice of the dead grouse within her head, end his incessant cawing, cawing, the dead bird pleaded, in rhythm with her pounding blood. She had hurt the grouse with her sloppy shot, but she could end his suffering now. And her suffering from this cawing knight. Plenty of time to reload, should that squire pose a threat to her or Roland. Dahlquin, Dahlquin, pumped in her ears.
“Before the Gods, he didn’t mean it,” called Roland unable to break the gaze between Eloise and this dangerous knight.
The knight opened his mouth to speak, an apology Eloise hoped.
“You, sir, are pathetic, and undeserving of such a page. The lad is possessed of fighting spirit which you lack,” the knight said addressing Roland, but still looking down his nose at her arrow.
“El,” Roland growled to Eloise.
No one moved.
“I will see him eat his words,” she said. The pain of her injured ankle was distant, like a black cloud rising, or a debt yet to be paid. She was rooted to Garth. With his four unbroken fetlocks he was able to pivot and fly should she need. Their breath came slow and steady together. Spirituality filled her. Archer’s Grace: that moment of purity when all the elements aligned and the archer became the bow, the arrow and the target. Eloise possessed the knight. He could not escape her.
Roland rode between them. Blocking her shot, grace disrupted. Damn it, Roland! Her arrow couldn’t bend clear around him. With the slightest shift of her weight, she and Garth side passed right. But again, Roland was blocking her shot, protecting not her but that rude stranger.
“I’m not afraid of you, England,” she said, growling the last word, wrath possessing her once more. Had Roland forgotten that knight was threatening their mission, and thus her family? Connacht?
“Silence!” Roland roared with an unearthly voice.
Starlings took flight, sparkling black wings thwumping. The fury in his face brought Eloise out of her rage and forced her into his. His teeth were bared. His eyes were cold ebony and fastened on her. Was that lightning she smelled? The black cloud was unleashing a storm, and she didn’t think she could weather it.
Roland pivoted Artoch, turning his back to her. Artoch’s slashing black tail was like a slap in the face. She lowered her bow, releasing the pressure on the string. Her hands started to shake.
“The boy has a stomach for fight,” growled the knight. “I admire that,” he added, implying Roland was afraid of the challenge.
“The boy is foolish and speaks out of turn,” Roland rumbled back, as if on the verge of losing control.
Roland and the knight debated back and forth about avenging the insults between them. Circling each other from horseback, Eloise thought she saw sparks between them. The tension bore down on her like the stone lid of a sarcophagus.
Had she gone too far? Closing her eye she tried to remember who she was. She had gone too far, and was nauseous with shame, but she still simmered with anger and hurt. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? Impudent knave, isn’t that what he called her? Her father called her impudent. Impudent, impertinent, and an ugly squirrel tumbled through her mind creating bitter anguish. Breathing hard, she glanced up at the equally impudent, impertinent knight and her defiance was born anew.
“Let us settle it now, while the lads dress the grouse,” demanded the knight. He seemed to relish the idea of a fight while lunch was prepared. “Or should we let the lads settle it for us?” he smiled. “Some entertainment while we dine.” He rubbed his hands together as if i
n happy anticipation. “I'd love to see what that feisty little knave is truly made of. You've taken some hard licks and are still outspoken,” he addressed Eloise, his green eyes sparkling with delight. “That would be great sport.” His mood was improving, she observed. She felt sick, her ankle stabbed at her, the debt come due.
The returning squire looked at her with increasing pleasure. He could take that scrawny page, his expression said. Eloise knew reducing her to further pulp would without doubt elevate him in his master’s eyes. What had she done?
Despite the weight of guilt and fear, she still fumed at this surly knight’s rude insults towards her beloved uncle, may he rest with the angels. And her mother, he called her Sorceress and insinuated she and Uncle Reggie…who had given his hand and his life to save her. She would not stand by and let someone degrade his memory.
Taking in the squire’s contemptuous looks, Eloise pondered her chances with him. He looked like a hungry animal eyeing his next meal. Eloise felt like a frightened rabbit, rather an ugly squirrel. It couldn’t be a fair fight. Fair fights didn’t exist when it was life or death, her father’s voice murmured to her. If she could lure him close, she might be able to disable him, a very slim chance: a slim, miraculous chance…in Hell.
Eloise took the arrow in her trembling bow hand. With her shaking right hand, she lifted her wooden cross pendant to her split lips, kissed it then began crossing herself. God have mercy, what have I done? She prayed for the safety of Lord Roland, whom she had stupidly embroiled. She begged forgiveness. She prayed for the safety of her family. At seventeen she must accept responsibility for her actions and the consequences. There was nothing glorious or heroic in this, just resignation.
Roland’s mind spun. What was she doing to him? Was she demented? Roland didn’t know this brash knight or how capably he fought, and today - bruised, exhausted - Roland might not win, and then what? The gamble was too great. No, they couldn’t fight. Eloise and that squire definitely weren’t going to battle it out. God’s Blood! Impudent girl! Why couldn’t she keep still? Had she forgotten the dire plight of her parents?
“You wish to fight and settle a debt of honor. I wish nothing more than to grant you that,” Roland said, stretching out the sentences, attempting to rein in the emotions. “However,” he lifted his gauntleted hand. “I beg you grant me an extension. I’m duty bound to deliver this page,” he emphasized the word page, not squire, flicking his thumb in her direction, “to High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert of Leinster. If you would meet me there in a day, we will finish this,” Roland offered. He did want to finish it.
“Page, is it? He looks well past ten years of age,” the knight glared once more at Eloise. “He is brash and needs to be taught some manners.”
Eloise had her head bowed in silent prayer, crossing herself repeatedly, piety surrounding her and her quiet grey stallion.
“What a noble and honorable lad,” the knight said, then sighed.
“Will you grant me a day to fulfill my duty?” asked Roland again. “My squire is there, Val, we’ll make it a foursome if you wish,” he added to enhance his offer.
“Hmmm,” the knight said, scratching his chin. “A truly good fight at Lord FitzGilbert’s castle is a tempting offer. Now or later?” He shifted his gaze from Roland to Eloise, still deep in prayer, then looked over his shoulder towards Leinster and back to Roland. “What the Hell, there is enough grouse for all,” he sighed. “I accept your offer, knight to knight, squire to squire. However, we travel together. To my knowledge the castle is at least two days ride from here, am I mistaken?” asked the knight.
Roland resented the unspoken implication he might not be at the castle as promised. Nor did he relish the idea of enduring this insufferable knight’s company for even half a day. Volatile and dangerous, the knight was. And he and Eloise could not be slowed.
“We have been making very good time. Without doubt we can make the castle by nightfall. I’ll wait for you there.” Let them try and keep up, thought Roland.
“We’ll ride together. Now let’s call it done and cook this grouse before it decays. I humbly request you join us for a meal,” the knight said, looking the jovial host with broad smile and outstretched arms, as if this open space were his great hall.
“I’m Sir Pingbee of Wexford,” he said, then he bowed. “This is Alred, my squire, who is from Meath with ties to Connacht.” Alred bowed as well, stinging from the disappointment of battle lost.
“Roland, Lord of Ashbury-at-March, Connacht, and El,” Roland said feeling neither expansive nor wishing to say any more about his page. His anger unabated, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
“Ashbury is a long way from England, Lord Roland,” Pingbee said, growling England as Eloise had done.
“Aye,” Roland grunted in English, fixing Eloise with a punishing glare before surveying the terrain. “Let them prepare that bird,” he said to Pingbee, putting his sword through the scabbard on his girdle before dismounting.
Arrow returned to quiver, Eloise took a deep breath before lifting her injured ankle and easing it over Garth’s back. She held herself. Usually she would drop to the ground landing squarely on both feet. She paused, fearing she would cry out when she hit the ground. Gone was the strength and assurance, the Grace that protected her while facing Pingbee. Without guards, arms and her mighty hounds, the glory of Dahlquin was again a secret deep in her heart. Invoking the strength of Cu Chulainn, she eased herself inch by inch to the turf below. A pony would be handy, she thought.
Reggie’s shield bumped the back of her head. She felt hands grip her waist and steady her to the ground. Roland withdrew without a word.
Eloise and Alred were to work together to prepare the meal.
“El has a broken ankle,” Roland announced, “he can’t collect kindling or wood for the fire.”
“Broken ankle, as well as that beating,” Pingbee gasped, gazing from Eloise back to Roland. “By your hand, sir?”
Roland shrugged, but said nothing. “He is capable of singeing and plucking.”
Once the fire was ablaze, Eloise was assigned the task of singeing and plucking the grouse. She burned her fingers on the hot feathers.
“Clumsy,” Alred said, “let me help.”
Eloise glanced at him and he blew a cloud of smoke and ash into her face. She coughed and rubbed her eye. Having been spared a fight once already, Eloise couldn’t let him provoke her.
This taunting seemed a fair exchange to the knights for they did nothing to interfere.
Because they were in a hurry, she jointed the grouse and sliced the thick breasts and thighs to cook faster on the open fire. She stuffed the liver between the fatty skin and flesh of one of the thighs, and the heart in the other, imagining how tasty it would be if she had some onion, parsley and salt. Exalted salt.
“Sirs, do you have any bread?” she asked Pingbee and Alred.
The men shook their heads.
“We neither,” she said. “Ah well.” She hesitated. “If we had more time, and bread,” she said, “I would stuff onions, parsley and bread in the cavity of this bird along with the heart. And such a paste I would have made with the liver.” She closed her eye a moment, thinking on such a feast. Food tasted better in the open, she reflected. “It takes at least two hours to roast a stuffed bird this size. In a fire pit…with river stones…peat or lots of wood, of course,” she added at last. When no one said anything, she looked about at their hungry, expectant faces.
“You could do that?” Pingbee asked, his eyes glowing green.
“With more time, I could.” she said with a lilt. “We shall have cooked morsels in half the time,” she continued, “and, oh, the aroma, when all you smell is the bird and not the wood,” she said, inhaling deeply through her congested nose, “then it's done,” she almost sighed. Pingbee and Alred inhaled as well, as if they too might enjoy the mythical aroma.
Pingbee smacked his lips in approval. “What a picnic this will be!”
Alr
ed’s mouth seemed to water at the thought of such a meal.
“A fine picnic, with cider, Connacht ale and summer wine,” she added.
Impudence forgotten, Eloise knew she had earned a place at their figurative table.
But Roland’s cold expression reminded her that she was still in exile.
Back on the road, Eloise reflected on Pingbee. Once fed, he enjoyed laughing, storytelling and proved to be a most congenial fellow. Gone was the rude and harsh exterior. Not as tall as Roland, but stout like a bull, Pingbee was a large and imposing man, with auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. Fit and capable, at thirty-seven years of age he exceeded the average life span of the typical younger, unlanded sons who traveled the world as knights-errant. If only he would apologize for his dishonorable words, Eloise thought.
Alred shoved her, pitching her forward.
Groaning, she regained her seat and glared at Alred. His sneer angered her, but what could she do? This was the way of it, young men in training, sparring, playing rough. Trying to unseat each other. Poking or jabbing. Relentless taunting and bullying.
His sneer turned to a smirk. He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a wry smile. Eloise let her breath out, a truce perhaps. Then he leaned over, stretched his arm and pinched her neck, twisting the skin hard. She yelped, trying unsuccessfully to shove him off, unwilling to use Cara to hit him. Reggie’s shield was an awkward weight on her injured left side as she tried to keep the reins light and not pull on Garth’s sensitive mouth.
“Leave off, Alred. Enough,” Roland said, looking over his shoulder at the riders behind him. It was one thing to assign El all the lowly tasks of plucking feathers and gutting the bird, blowing smoke and ash in her face, making disparaging remarks about her skills and loose tongue. These were accepted behaviours between squire and page. But Roland wouldn't allow contact.
The conversation between Roland and Pingbee was interrupted by more jostling between Eloise and Alred. Believing Roland was still angry, she refused to complain or ask for help. She took the abuse. Pingbee smiled broadly and nodded his head in approval. Her quiet acceptance of the harassment only seemed to increase her esteem in the eyes of Pingbee.
