Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “Roland,” Pingbee said, “El has fighting spirit, seems he’s learned to keep his place after all.” He nodded to her again. “The boy has potential, despite his impertinence. And weren’t we all a bit impertinent in our youth,” he said, more a declaration than a question. He chuckled.

  You still are, Eloise thought to herself. Impertinence grown to rudeness. Movement caught her eye: Alred trying to box her ear. She raised her arm to block, taking the bruising blow.

  “The impertinence and heat of youth,” Pingbee answered to Roland’s quizzical look.

  Roland reined Artoch around, stopping directly in front of Alred, forcing the squire’s horse to a stop. Eloise was gratified to see the younger man shrink back.

  “Leave off, boy.” Roland turned and rode back to Pingbee, who stared back at Alred with a disapproving look. Don’t provoke him, Pingbee’s look seemed to say. Alred flushed and he looked down, then sideways at Eloise. “I’ll get you,” he mouthed, but it was his hateful expression that made her nauseous with dread.

  “The bow is a lowly weapon,” Alred said. “A coward’s weapon.”

  Eloise ignored him.

  “A true warrior doesn’t kill from a safe distance,” he continued ridiculing her. “And that-” he said, pointing to Cara in her right hand, “wouldn’t stop man nor beast. A coward’s weapon.”

  Cara. Praise be to God, Alred didn’t know her name, Eloise thought, for Cara would surely stop his beating heart and that of his beast and a hundred more. What was an army without the multitude of archers and crossbowmen? Not the hand-to-hand might of the knight, but what a plague upon life. Hadn’t he been cowardly enough to share the bounty of her weapon? Fighter’s stance. She dare not glare at Alred.

  Eloise reached into her pouch, searching for a willow leaf to chew. The taste was startling in its bitterness, but it did soften her physical pain. Nothing could soften the pain in her heart. Roland hadn’t spoken to her since he commanded her to silence. That word and the memory of his voice chilled her. Would he ever forgive her? Could they yet be friends? She yearned for the close bond they were forging. Unbidden the melody and words of the song ran pure and strong in her mind: Something has awakened and will not be put to rest. If he never spoke to her again, she would be lost in the emptiness of it.

  Don’t dwell on him, her guilt was overpowering. All Dahlquin-Ireland depended on them. The time elapsed so quickly, yet the miles passed so slowly. She clutched her stomach and fought back tears. So empty, what was wrong with her? Was Dahlquin dying, was that the emptiness she felt, her parents and kinsmen, perishing even as she and Roland rode for help? It was not! Don’t dwell on that either. Be a smart girl - how easy it was to give advice to Blathin. Garth flinched. His ears were back and he turned his teeth towards Alred and his mount.

  Garth didn’t want to follow. His dominant role in this ‘herd’ had been challenged with Pingbee and his mount in front. Now Garth was behind with this gelding. Eloise stroked his neck, reassuring him, commiserating. She hated it too. Usually sure and confident, today her weight was off, she gave weak cues. She sat up, straightening her posture.

  Roland and Pingbee were watching her.

  “That stallion is too much for the boy,” Pingbee commented.

  “He’s a grand horse,” Roland answered.

  “Needs to learn who’s in charge.” Pingbee looked thoughtful a moment, then smiled. “Like the boy,” he laughed. “You should take a strap to that bastard, like the master has done to you,” he instructed Eloise.

  Eloise blanched. Take a strap to Garth. Surely this man had to be a Scragmuir. Or English. None but Scragmuir could be so foul and offensive. She gave him a look of hatred. Didn’t she have enough to plague her waking thoughts without this unendurable man? Again, Garth pinned his ears, and she felt his back tense. She let her breath out and tried to concentrate on Garth. Eloise looked past the knights before her and envisioned High Lord FitzGilbert’s castle looming on the horizon, sanctuary for them and salvation for her imperiled kin.

  “Ride here where I can watch,” Pingbee said to Eloise, “take a lesson.”

  Roland genially fell back, making room for Eloise to ride beside Pingbee. Frustrated, she wouldn't look at Roland as she cued Garth forward to ride next to the most insufferable knight in all Ireland. She had a brief hope that Roland might give Alred a lesson or two in punching and shoving. Garth turned his head to her, bringing her back.

  “The reins are too loose,” Pingbee said. “Make a fist. Grip those reins,” and he demonstrated as his horse pinned its ears momentarily. “If he roots, you'll be ready to strike him,” Pingbee claimed, as if this were the way to handle a horse, Eloise lamented to herself hoping his steed would dump him in the mud for his harshness. “And that shield,” he continued, “is too big and heavy for you.”

  Eloise gently tickled the reins and Garth tucked his chin. She touched him lightly with her legs, willing him to understand and perform. She could feel him quiver and expand. He tossed his head and turned an ear to her, seeking her guidance. Pingbee was barking at her, some inane nonsense about spurs and fists and quirts. Ignoring Pingbee, letting her breath out, Eloise focused on the road, envisioning FitzGilbert's castle before her. She didn't think about riding or cueing, just the feel of her Garth, his broad, round back.

  “Beautiful,” Pingbee said. “See how well that works?”

  Despite the injured ankle and poor cueing, Garth executed an elegant right leg yield moving well ahead of Pingbee. At her request, Garth yielded the other way in a collected canter. Listening, playing, mayhap he was as eager as her to do something familiar and correct. Had there ever been such a noble partner as her Garth?

  “That's far enough,” Roland called.

  Hearing the worry in his voice, she clenched, remembering the trap she had ridden into. Garth reacted, halting, jarring her. Stabbing pain radiated from her ankle, up her leg, gripping her gut, making her gasp, opening the split in her lips. Her reaction caused Garth to jig in place, nervously seeking direction. Holding her breath she radiated fear to Garth.

  “Too much leg,” Pingbee scolded. “Not the horse's fault.

  “She has a broken ankle,” Roland said crossly from behind.

  Eloise gulped, sneaking a sideways look. Then stroking Garth, reassuring him.

  “Who?” Pingbee asked, glancing back at Roland.

  Alred laughed. “A cockless waste, I knew it,” he chided Eloise.

  “El,” Roland tried to correct.

  “I thought you said-”

  “He has a broken ankle, remember?” Roland interrupted.

  “Hmmm, At-March, in Connacht,” Pingbee said, studying Roland. “Reginald's shield,” Pingbee murmured. “That’s a grand horse. Royal White,” Pingbee added, more to himself than as a compliment to Eloise, she thought. “Dahlquin.”

  His last utterance hung in the air. Eloise couldn't help herself. She stared at Pingbee, wondering if he had concluded her identity. Broken, isolated, with only an angry, surly Englishman to protect her? Or give her up, she wondered. Roland would not.

  “Dahlquin,” Pingbee shouted, slapping his knee. “You’re a bastard son, you are.” Pingbee looked back to Roland to confirm his deduction.

  Eloise turned to Roland as well, silently trying to communicate whether to go with this declaration, freeing them both from further scrutiny, or was it too close to the truth? This knight, friendly now, could still be the enemy and a threat to them.

  Having come to a conclusion, Roland gave Pingbee a wry smile, his brown eyes hard and lined.

  “Sir, it could be that you’re too smart for us,” Roland said.

  “I knew it!” Pingbee beamed. “Damn, now which one of those bloody, murdering brothers is the father, eh?” He studied El for any telltale resemblance. “Hubert or Reginald?”

  This debate turned her stomach. How dare he? To accuse either of them. Someday, she promised herself, someday, before God and the spirits, he would eat his words.

 
“A bastard knave,” Alred joked, obviously thrilled to have found more fault with the puny page. “A cunt from Connacht. Cunt-achtmen,” he continued his joke.

  “I’m from Connacht,” Roland said, the wry smile replaced with the impassive warrior’s expression. “If you insult my neighbors again,” Roland said, giving Eloise what could only be described as a courteous nod, “I’ll peel the skin from your hairless balls and fillet the rest for Ashbury's hogs.”

  Eloise felt her heart sing as she watched the color drain from Alred's face with Roland's borrowed threat. She and Garth fell in behind Roland and Pingbee, again beside the dastardly Alred, as they continued riding.

  “Sir,” Pingbee hailed Roland, “you ride as if pursued by Satan himself!”

  Pingbee's voice had a familiar, irritable edge. He was succumbing to the grueling pace and getting hungry, Eloise noted.

  Roland looked over his shoulder, and again scanned the horizon for just that.

  “We are.” Roland crossed himself. Pingbee, Eloise and Alred followed.

  “Lord Roland, by your gracious will,” Pingbee started. “El is plagued by vast injuries, surely we could offer him a chance to rest?”

  Clever, Eloise thought, begging rest for her sake.

  Roland glanced at Eloise and tilted his head, questioning. Did she wish to rest?

  “You’re a slave driver, sir,” Pingbee interjected before Eloise could respond. “Look at our horses.”

  “The next water we come to, the Langston stream is close. A good suggestion Sir, to rest for the sake of El and the horses,” Roland bowed his head. “But briefly. Satan does not rest.”

  The promise of stopping for rest and water seemed to make everyone acutely aware of how thirsty and tired they were.

  After attending the horses, Eloise found the willow leaves in her saddle bag. The chamois cloth dropped to the ground. Garth stepped away for better grazing and she retrieved the chamois and tucked it in her girdle. With a willow leaf between her cheek and gum, Eloise sat against the trunk of an oak tree, eyes closed. She was tired of Pingbee and his insufferable squire, Alred. Couldn’t he find anything better to do than torment her? And torment he did, even now, kicking her.

  “Move!”

  Lumbering to her feet, she limped to where Roland sat leaning against a yew tree. She clutched her wooden pendant and prayed to Saint Monica and the Goddess Brigid for patience. Safely at Roland’s side, she laid Reggie’s shield and her bow within hand’s reach and offered to polish his dagger while he rested. She could be close to him, without appearing to have sought his protection.

  He grunted. Eyes still closed. He removed the dagger from its scabbard. “You aren’t going to gut me, are you?” he asked, one eye peering at her as she reached for the offered handle.

  “My Lord?” she asked, confused, “of course not.”

  “I thought you might shoot me, when you called me England,” he said, loosening his grip on the blade as she took the handle.

  “Alred!” Pingbee shouted and Eloise almost dropped the dagger. “Take a lesson from young El, a moment to clean my dagger,” and Pingbee thrust his dagger out toward the disgusted Alred.

  Eloise looked up to catch Alred’s dagger-sharp glance aimed at her.

  “Just you wait,” he mouthed.

  Just you wait, she thought as well.

  Eloise felt Roland’s gaze upon her. After his borrowed threat to Alred, she thought, hoped, he was getting over his anger. She was repentant. Pingbee and Alred pushed her to the limits of tolerance, but she understood the danger and wouldn’t allow herself to be provoked again.

  Roland sighed.

  She looked up, wondering, questioning, not speaking.

  “Your father,” Roland said, shaking his head, “has his hands full.” He gave her a crooked smile that spoke exasperation, consternation and resignation.

  Eloise sighed herself, letting the words form, her apology, the explanation - for surely Roland wouldn’t suffer such foul insults to his mother’s honor - as well as her appreciation for his friendship, his presence next to her. She inhaled, opened her mouth to speak.

  “Roland,” Pingbee said, cutting her off. As Roland turned his attention, she hated Pingbee all the more for again intruding on her time with Roland.

  “Three days, sir, three days to FitzGilbert,” Pingbee said.

  Roland closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap as Pingbee continued his argument that the road to High Lord FitzGilbert’s castle was at least three days riding, again questioning the unreasonable demands. She snorted, immediately regretting the indiscretion, hoping Roland didn’t hear it. His eyes remained closed as he leaned against the sturdy yew. Will I never learn to be still?

  “Villages with lodging and drink, Roland! Are you listening to me?”

  Thankful she hadn’t returned the chamois to the saddlebag, Eloise used it as she spit and polished Roland’s dagger. Like most fighting daggers it was easily three mens’ hand lengths. She laid it across her finger and noted the heft and balance. Like her father’s dagger, it was without ornamentation, but sheer elegance of purpose. The wood handle was aged and the leather grip well-used. Picturing his hand gripping the dagger, she shuddered, longing to feel his fingers wrap around her. Fingers he had nearly broken fighting with the marauders.

  “Despite the name, the Soggy Bog has the finest beer and spirits.” Pingbee smacked his lips.

  “You buying?” Roland asked, eyes still closed.

  “With the Lord of At-March present?”

  Roland shook his head.

  “Cheap bastard,” Pingbee grumbled.

  “Don’t forget it,” Roland answered.

  Eloise returned the dagger to Roland’s scabbard, and awkwardly squeezed herself next to him. “Let me have your hand,” she murmured, taking it up and removing his studded gauntlet. “Such fatigue upon you,” she crooned, turning his exposed hand palm up, examining the bruises and callouses. His hand was huge. She ran her hand flat along his, easing his fingers open. Working up an excess of saliva, she swished it about her mouth with the willow leaf she had tucked between her lip and gum. Once more, she caressed his warm palm with her own. “This will help,” she whispered, spitting the willow saliva into his meaty palm. Before he could lodge a complaint, she was massaging the warm concoction into his flesh. She hummed. As Roland relaxed, she increased the pressure and widened the circular motion, gradually palpating and stretching the tissue.

  She moved to his thumb crotch, gently pulling then massaging the webbed skin. She started humming a tune about the thumb, the mighty Dwarf King of the hand. Taking his thumb in her grip she playfully wriggled it, loosening it, letting the weight of his hand pop his joints. His nails were stained, and she tried to dislodge some of the dirt.

  All his fingers had little pelts of black hair on their backs. Succumbing to desire, she balled her left hand, then placed it inside Roland’s. With her right hand she stroked his fingers, urging them to curl around her fist. He engulfed it. Squeezing once, he then pressed with one finger at a time, from baby finger to thumb and back down again.

  Next she embraced his hand in both of hers; taking his pointing finger between her thumb and first two fingers she entwined her remaining fingers with his, then slowly caressed and tugged on his finger, listening as well as feeling for the ping of the joints.

  What she heard was something between a sigh and a growl. Although his eyes were closed, he bore the shadow of a smile on his sleepy countenance.

  Each finger received the same treatment.

  “The road to FitzGilbert is three days riding,” Pingbee complained anew. Eloise realized how inadequately she had appreciated the quiet, once Pingbee resumed whining. “You are unreasonable, sir.”

  Roland yawned then said, “Satisfy yourself,” in a patronizing voice, still not opening his eyes.

  “Think of the horses,” Pingbee countered, hands outstretched. Think of poor, broken El.” Now he pointed at her. Ignoring him she continued massag
ing Roland's fingers.

  “You are not under obligation, sir. But I’m bound to deliver poor, broken El to FitzGilbert before he kills one or all of us,” Roland added, with a grin on his sleepy face.

  Pingbee guffawed.

  “You’ll want to be well rested when next we meet,” Roland said.

  “Sounds like you wish to escape us, sir,” Pingbee goaded, inciting the underlying tension and threat of their strange association.

  “I’ll wait for you at the castle or return to this very spot, sir,” Roland offered, eyes open, “if your slothful arses are still here,” Roland said with a snarling smirk.

  Eloise held her breath as the postponed fight resurrected before her, the air vibrating, consuming all thought and energy, Roland and Pingbee eyeing each other like two starving beasts sated only by a banquet of violence. Neither man blinked. Eloise quickly turned her glance to Alred, poised but not moving. Disciplined. Eloise allowed herself to breath, but nothing more. Watching, waiting. Wishing she had Cara in hand.

  Then as if by mutual arrangement, Pingbee sniffed, Roland snorted, both knights relented. How did they know, what had she missed?

  “Let’s go,” Roland said, standing. “May you have goodness,” he said to Eloise. “Ready?” he asked, extending a hand to pull her up, the hint of a smile.

  Eloise took a deep breath and exhaled loudly before taking his hand. Pulling herself up, she felt the tremor in his warm hand. Then he slipped his massaged hand in his gauntlet.

  With more grumbling from Pingbee about the unreasonableness of the pace and the duration of the trip, they all saddled up.

  VILLAGE, 14th of June

  Seamus, Broccan, Torcan, Ercc, Donal and Maiu entered the village, drawing stares and enquiries. This village was muddier than the rest, the horses sinking near to their knees. Who lives in such a swamp, Seamus wondered?

  “Is hunger upon you, sirs?” a merchant asked. “Space to tie and water your horses, right here.”