Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “Hungry for information,” Seamus acknowledged, watching the merchant’s expression pale. “We’re pursuing a knight and boy, black and grey horses. Did they pass this way?”

  “Two days ago was Market Day. Then the flood. So many people. I don’t recall the two, then or today,” the merchant answered, looking defeated as Seamus and his men moved on.

  They continued into the village, questioning and searching, hearing about the flood and Noah, until someone claimed to remember the two and directed them to an inn.

  “Dragon Slayer is it?” Broccan commented, a sly grin spreading on his face as he questioned the innkeeper. “He tell you about that, did he?” Broccan queried, distracting the innkeeper and his assistants as Torcan snuck around the back to pilfer the storage chamber.

  “His page,” one of the wide-eyed assistants started, shaking his head, “looked like dragon bait.”

  “Face battered. One eye swelled over completely. Couldn’t walk.”

  “Or talk,” the other assistant added.

  The innkeeper shook his head with the exaggerations.

  “Both covered in blood,” the first assistant said.

  “Bad lot, them two,” Broccan agreed.

  “They were quiet and kept to themselves,” the innkeeper said. “We’re a peaceable village, and they didn’t bring trouble upon us. Dragons, bah,” the innkeeper said, “back to work,” he added with a wave of his hand at his assistants.

  “By your will, if your lads might,” Seamus called to the innkeeper’s back. Torcan was, presumably, still robbing the inn and Seamus needed to keep all the men engaged. “If they might draw some water for the horses after all.” When the innkeeper turned to face him, he made a show of pulling out his worn, leather money pouch and searching the near empty bag of his remaining treasure. “I can pay,” Seamus said, bringing out some coins. The innkeeper studied him and his travel mates before turning his attention to his assistants. Both lads looked to their employer and Seamus thought they were willing to help, and more eager to share their views on the Dragon Slayer and boy.

  “Fuck the beasts,” Broccan shouted, “if you’re paying for drink, I should be allowed. Eh?” he said as he dismounted. All the riders dismounted.

  “Horses first,” Seamus said, as the lads rushed over to take the horses to the cistern. “Covered in blood, you say?” he asked as he walked with the lads and horses.

  Back on the road, Seamus rode with renewed urgency. Riding the previous night had paid off. The rain held their prey over another day.

  “Just this very morning, Broccan,” Seamus said again, savoring the knowledge.

  “We could be riding in their very hoof prints,” Broccan said. “The wounded bastards should be easy to take down now. Torcan, your family did some damage after all.”

  “Breathe deep, Torcan,” Seamus called back to him. “Smells like your revenge is at hand.”

  “Revenge? Smells like death,” Broccan shouted.

  “They will hear us coming,” Seamus said, signaling with his hand for Broccan to lower his voice.

  “Bah,” Broccan scoffed. “The two of them, blind and crippled, to ambush us.”

  “None should hear us. You provoke trouble with such boasts.”

  Torcan spoke up. He was finally riding his horse without being towed.

  “You want them dead.” Torcan confirmed, not for the first time on this grueling journey.

  Seamus and Broccan both nodded.

  “As we have discussed, endlessly,” Broccan added.

  Torcan grimaced but said nothing.

  Seamus’s horse alerted him to something. People, horses, livestock? He raised a hand, drawing the riders’ attention, then sliced the air. Silence.

  “Good morrow to you, fair brothers,” Broccan said before Seamus could utter a salutation.

  “And to you as well,” said a tall man leading the procession.

  The five religious men before him walked in two rows of two and three. They were dressed in homespun grey robes with simple rope belts. Seamus couldn’t believe his eyes when Broccan side passed his horse off the road, indicating to the other riders they do the same. The other riders didn’t have the skills of Broccan, and their horses went everywhere but off the road. Broccan gave a pious nod to the brothers. Torcan’s horse stood passively.

  “Pray you have continued safe travels, brothers,” Broccan said, “you may have passed dangerous marauders on your journey.”

  “Blessings upon you. Our travel has been safe,” said the lead man. The others remained quiet, observant.

  “Indeed. By chance did you pass two travelers on this road? A knight and boy, black horse and grey?” Broccan asked.

  The lead man looked back at his fellow brothers. Each one shrugged or shook his head.

  “We didn’t pass any such travelers.”

  “Fortuna’s favor is upon you. How long have you traveled this road?” Broccan asked.

  “Good fortune, you say,” the lead man repeated. “Mayhap God is protecting us.”

  “And how long have you been on this road?” Broccan asked again.

  The lead man paused. He was tall, gaunt, with intent yet kindly eyes. He looked at each of the riders; it seemed to Seamus he was assessing their intent anew. “So long as God wills it,” he answered.

  There was a pause. Once again Seamus was amazed at Broccan’s restraint. Just when he had formed his own response to this towering elusive, Broccan spoke:

  “Of course, forgive my ignorance in the ways of our Lord, God. We’re after two murderous rebels to God and crown. If they’re not on this road, we must change our course.”

  Again, the lead man pondered the request before answering.

  “Fucking murder, you say?” said one of the young men in line. “You’re well-armed for a man and boy.”

  This outburst brought chuckles and gasps from the young men in line as well as his riders.

  The lead man blanched then admonished:

  “Somhairle, shame upon you.”

  “I haven’t taken a vow a silence,” the young man said to his leader, his cheeks red with agitation. Then to Seamus and Broccan, “We joined this road a mile back. “Savior Jesus, protect us and these soldiers,” Somhairle said and crossed himself.

  “And other travelers as well,” added the leader, head bowed, crossing himself. The rest of his young men followed his example, including Somhairle.

  “May you have goodness, for the blessing,” Broccan said, “we should all be on our way. After you,” he said, extending his arm, indicating they proceed. Despite Broccan’s cordial display, his expression revealed disdain and malice. Torcan appeared a white-eyed boar, poised and ready to gore as he glared at the religious order.

  The leader took a deep breath, stood to his full height and with boney shoulders thrust back he warily led his young acolytes through the valley of the shadow of death.

  “Young Somhairle,” Broccan called after the procession, “find a horse and join us, if you feel the urge.”

  Seamus watched Somhairle raise a hand in acknowledgement, but the youth didn’t look back. What internal struggle did Somhairle wage? We all struggle. Seamus glanced at Broccan then back at Torcan. Most of us struggle.

  “Seamus, you aren’t thinking of joining them, are you?” Broccan said, pointing back at the religious parade behind them. “On with us - we’ve an execution to perform. Then back to New Ulster,” he said with a harsh laugh.

  New Ulster, with High King Tiomoid U’Neill. This is why we came, Seamus remembered as he and his riders cantered on. A new kingdom built upon the bones of the usurpers.

  ON THE ROAD, 14th of June

  Eloise heard snatches of conversation and laughter between Roland and Pingbee. Fellowship, if not friendship, was forming between these two warriors, the fraternity of fighters. Yet this comradery only existed to keep them together until they could kill each other. Then they would start over and mayhap be friends. She thought about warriors. It was the core of
their existence - fighting, protection. Eloise was indoctrinated from the cradle with legends and songs of such heroes. For the good of the ancient tribe, men would obediently risk their lives. Accepting knighthood and swearing an oath of fealty, a new life began, the life a warrior. All the men in her family, from great, great grand sires to her youngest cousins trained for this purpose. Anything less would bring shame.

  As Eloise loved the oneness with Garth, and her bow, Cara, a good knight loved the feeling of oneness with his steed and sword, the extension of his own flesh and bone giving way to hard metal, without distinction where one left off and the other started. Roland and Pingbee understood this unspoken bond between them and relished the fraternity that bound them together, validating them both in the ancient way of the warrior, the ancient way of men.

  “Pussy, pussy, pussy,” Alred sneered, his brown eyes boring into her, as if seeing her for what she was.

  Such a bond did not exist between Eloise and Alred.

  Had he guessed her true sex? A Dahlquin female? Had her whole disguise been undone? What then?

  “Little cock sucking bastard,” he said, thrusting his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

  Her cheeks burned and she tried not to listen. It was the ritualistic tormenting between pages, squires and knights.

  Roland and Pingbee didn’t seem to hear his taunts. Eloise tried not to pout, letting her breath out, focusing on the road ahead. This was what some squires did. Bullies.

  “Ow,” she yelped, her hand going to the sting in her cheek.

  Alred chuckled. He was throwing rocks at her. He patted the bulging leather pouch on his girdle, leering at her. Apparently, he had spent the rest-time collecting sharp stones to throw.

  “That how you got the horse? Taking it in the arse?” Alred chuckled. “And that shield too,” he added. “Dahlquin’s bastard, Reginald’s bitch.”

  Although she had never met Roland's squire, Val, she wished with all her aching heart that this heroic squire of mystery was here, for surely he would...what? Defeat Alred? Val owed her nothing. And she certainly didn’t wish to incur any more debt. Her list of encumbrances was much too long. So many lives already lost. Valuable, Dahlquin lives. Not like the useless turd riding next to her.

  He threw rocks at her, at Garth. They stung and she and her horse flinched in discomfort. Again a yelp escaped her.

  Roland glanced back, but she didn’t indicate her distress.

  “Cock sucking, arse fucking,” Alred taunted, once Roland returned his attention to the road.

  Eloise tried to ignore his words, but she kept a watchful eye on Alred, ducking and dodging the rocks as best she could.

  “Arse sucking, cock fucking,” he said, sniffing the air, making a disgusted face. “Shit breath, that’s what stinks around here.”

  Alred pulled up sharply on his horse’s reins, swinging in behind Eloise and Garth, riding up on her left side, her blind side. Now she rode behind Pingbee with Alred directly behind Roland. The knights said nothing about the change of position.

  “Like stinking Scragmuir,” he sneered, low as a whisper.

  Scragmuir. Eloise turned sharply returning his glare. “I hate Scragmuir,” she let out, the miles of suppressed anger and resentment spilling out in the generations-ingrained bitterness at the mere mention of her ancestral enemy.

  Roland turned around, fixing his stern gaze on her.

  She met and held it, studying his expression.

  “My neighbors,” he said, giving the slightest tip of his head.

  Eloise knew she should lower her gaze, at least her head. She told herself to do it, yet she glared at Roland a moment longer, as if the pent-up frustration forced her posture against reason. What was she doing, inviting violence? Fighter’s stance - again.

  “Forgive me,” she said, concentrating all effort on a humble, penitent voice, since her head seemed beyond her control. Hearing her own congested voice, her shoulders slumped allowing her chin to drop, but her eyes remained on Roland until he nodded his acceptance of her apology and returned his attention to Pingbee.

  “You’re not just impudent?” Alred said, eyes wide. “You’re fucking crazed.”

  Pingbee said to Roland, “Seems both lads met with a dirty deed, or two.”

  “Mayhap,” Roland, said shrugging his shoulders, not looking back.

  They rode on, without a rock or taunt. Eloise didn’t want to turn her head, validating that Alred had her worried, annoyed, angry. But what was he doing? Why the cessation of harassment? Slowly she lowered the shield and craned her neck until she could glance at Alred with her open eye.

  His head was nodding, eyes half closed. He is falling asleep, she thought with relief, letting her breath out. He was not, she told herself. He is faking. She glanced again to see his head dip, and jerk back up, blinking. Anticipating a rock or cruel word, Eloise concentrated on the road ahead. Waiting. Nothing. Maybe he really was falling asleep. Quiet. Finally.

  My enemy’s enemy is my friend, Eloise heard her father counsel. She wondered what heinous deed Alred had suffered at the hands of Scragmuir? Was he past redemption? Couldn’t Roland see how damaged this squire was, by his neighbors? And Pingbee? He claimed he was of Wexford, but surely someone so ill-tempered must have ties with Scragmuir.

  Keep your friends close…and your enemies closer. It jolted her, then she smiled, because this time is was her mother giving counsel, Aine’s melodic voice, soft and strong, both at once.

  Life was full of contradictions. Mayhap Alred was a contradiction. Their mutual hatred of Scragmuir must surely outweigh whatever grievances had developed between them on the road. Stupid, surly, inept. But his burning hatred for Scragmuir was a virtue unto itself.

  Then her neck. She was choking. Her hand went to her throat as she fell back, out of the saddle. In a flash she saw the sky, patches of grey and black clouds.

  Startled, Garth swung around to see where Eloise went.

  The fall jarred her, pain stabbed like a knife, bold as thunder. She couldn’t contain the groan that emanated from deep in her gut as she tried to stifle the tears.

  “Hmm Hmmm Hmmmmmmmhhhhmmm,” he chortled. Don’t cry, she kept telling herself, you’ll sound like a girl.

  She saw Roland turn to see Garth, riderless. Alred watched her in unrestrained glee.

  Roland drew his sword.

  Alred turned, shrugging his shoulders. His mouth fell open when Roland sidled up next to him. Artoch forced the gelding to step away. Eloise saw one forceful stroke and graceful sweep. Roland narrowed his eyes in menace, staring into the terrified eyes of Alred, taunting and intimidating the youth, El Muerte Rojo bloodied.

  With slow, deliberate movements, Roland wiped his bloody sword across Alred’s thigh, one side then the other, leaving a swipe of blood on the squire’s wool hose.

  Roland leaned over. With the tip of his sword he stabbed something in the dirt and flung it up into Alred’s anguished face.

  “Yours,” Roland said with disdain, dropping the useless flap of ear in Alred’s lap.

  It was during this frightening movement that pain and realization must have caught up with Alred. He howled. Lifting a hand to the wound, he clutched a fistful of blood.

  Garth returned to Eloise and lowered his head, sniffing at her then blowing out his warm breath. She put a hand up to his large head and stroked it uneasily. “Looby,” she said, voice cracking.

  Roland dismounted; squatting next to her he placed his hand on her neck.

  She looked up. His mouth twitched. His eyes were dark and focused. She was thinking, hoping, he longed to comfort her as much as longed to be held. That was out of the question with Alred and Pingbee looking on.

  Pingbee appeared so startled by the event he just stared from Alred to her and Roland, speechless for once.

  Stifling her burning sobs, she sighed.

  Alred howled again. “He cut my fucking ear off! Bleeding Saints! He cut my ear off! Oh shit!” he wailed.

&nb
sp; No one addressed his ranting.

  “Can you ride?” Roland asked her.

  Eloise nodded. Thinking only if he lifted her, placed her in the saddle and...she moaned as he did just that.

  She bit her cut lips and rode on, blind with pain.

  Hearing her muffled sobs, Pingbee looked back.

  “You all right, son?” Pingbee asked her, his trepidation palpable.

  “El?” Roland asked.

  “Lord,” she answered, wiping her nose, “My Lord,” she added.

  Eloise turned to Alred, stupid, cruel, fecund excuse for a Christian. He was bleeding profusely. Some plantain and a few stitches would stop the flow of blood and increase his chances of recovering. Had to keep him alive, she remembered, so Val could kill him; perverse as it seemed, this was the way of it.

  They ambled on. To distract herself from the pain, Eloise turned her attention to the traffic on the road: merchants, families, sheep or cattle being driven to castle or market. The upheavals of these past few days crashed on her mind like the pain of her injuries. Dahlquin. Her birthright. Yet what had she done to earn it? Born female. And was she any closer to relief or salvation for her kin? Would High Lord FitzGilbert even receive her? Beaten beyond recognition, wrath and hatred in her wake. Is that what it took? And Roland’s petulance, was it a warrior's wrath and hatred? Eloise felt the rhythm of Garth's amble, moving forward, connecting her to her purpose. She could think in the saddle. Was that the relentless message her father and uncle tried to impart? With her so incapable of understanding? Because of her sex? It was not, she answered her own question. Unchecked wrath and hatred were synonymous with weakness and easily exploited, as Pingbee had done with her, she remembered. Wrath and hatred were not the answer, but the fuel. Anger and avarice were more fuel. Fuel she too might still learn to exploit, if...she had-

  Alred was weaving in his saddle, his tunic covered in blood.

  “He’s falling,” Eloise called. “I need to stop the bleeding, by your will.”

  “Alred, straighten up,” Pingbee commanded. Alred continue to spiral, as if drunk.

  “Ho!” she called to Alred's horse as well as Garth. “By your will,” Eloise tried again, as the tired horses came to a rough halt. Alred was sallow, his eyelids fluttered. “He’s bleeding to death.”