Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  “By your will, take your leave, we’ll see you at the feast,” Hubert said, signaling the pages to escort the knights to the well.

  “Ladies, I look forward to this evening,” Davydd said. He turned to Eloise and his smile warmed. “Mayhap you could teach me a dance step or two.”

  “Most assuredly, but watch your toes, he’s a bit heavy on his feet,” Ioan teased.

  Was Ioan the pretty one, Eloise wondered? He did have large brown eyes, but pretty like a woman? None of them fit that description.

  “Lord Hubert, you have been blessed,” Davydd said. “Tonight, we shall dance like never before. Ladies,” he bowed and left with the others.

  Eloise blushed and bit her lip. What fun. Already she imagined the music in her head, practicing the steps. She reached for her mother’s hand to proceed to the residential tower. They, too, needed to freshen up.

  Her father gripped her arm, nearly yanking her off her feet.

  “Have you gone daft? Flitting about when there are serious matters to consider,” Hubert said peering at her, his stern brow knotted.

  “I have not,” she said, offended. “Mathair and I’ve been exceedingly busy with-”

  “You brought embarrassment upon me,” he cut her off, “appearing as two vulgar May Queens with dirty hands and-” He glanced up at the floral crowns upon their heads.

  “I would be a gracious hostess, as you and Mathair taught me,” she huffed, the wreaths were lovely, and her father was taking this out of proportion.

  Rather than express indignation her mother bit her bottom lip, sighing audibly.

  Reginald caught Eloise’s attention; his face tight with disapproval. Though he barely moved, he shook his head.

  “Taught you to prance about as an uncouth…public woman,” Hubert’s voice was deep and grating. He spoke slowly, careful not to curse.

  “Uncouth! Mathair never…I would sing and dance to make you proud,” she protested. “Seems my only purpose is-” Slaving away in domestic servitude. “Dahlquin is-”

  “Ellie,” Reginald warned, but she ignored him.

  Dragon crouched half prone, her tail scraping the floor submissively, seeking an end to the palpable discord.

  “Why shouldn’t I sing and dance and read and learn and-”

  “Go to your chamber.” Hubert’s voice was flat, without emotion. Eloise knew not to speak now. No one was that stupid. She glanced sideways at Uncle Reggie.

  He shook his head and shrugged at her. The disappointment in his hazel eyes brought tears to hers.

  Eloise looked to her mother, who didn’t attempt to intercede either.

  Aine and Reginald watched Eloise stalk off to the residential tower, one hound on either side of her with heads down.

  “She needs a mate. And children. Sons of her own to vent that energy,” Reginald said to Aine.

  “She does, but not tonight,” Aine answered.

  “Who will love her and shelter her as Hubert and I do?” Reggie asked.

  “Who indeed,” Aine said.

  Eloise burst into her chamber, tears blurring her vision, her father’s voice ringing in her ears, and Uncle Reggie’s words, 'she needs sons'. A worthless daughter, the only redemption for her crime of gender was to replace herself with male heirs. How could he say that? Beast and Dragon entered behind her then rushed to greet Nurse, the kindly woman who had shared Eloise’s bed chamber since her birth.

  “Eloise?” Nurse called sweetly. The great hounds’ tails thumped the Nurse’s legs and each other.

  Eloise turned to look. Her beloved Nurse smiled broadly, unashamed of her missing teeth. Clutched to her broad self was the blue and gold surcoat Eloise had yet to complete. Eloise blinked back her tears, thinking her eyes tricked her. The seam she needed to tear out and redo was straight, flawless even. Eloise stretched out a hand to touch the garment. The trim was finished. All the meticulous, tedious hemming was done. And it was beautiful, befitting the Maid of Dahlquin for a glorious banquet she wouldn’t be attending.

  She fell sobbing into Nurse’s arms, the blue and gold surcoat crushed between them. All her good nurse’s gracious time wasted, but for her irritable father and her own hasty words.

  “What? What?” Nurse crooned, stroking her hair. “Joy upon me to do it for you, child. Not tears.”

  Eloise shook her head, unable to form the words.

  “Come, let’s get you clean and dressed. Still smell like a sweaty horse, you do,” Nurse said, pushing Eloise from her embrace. “Your father’s daughter,” she added with a chuckle.

  Eloise bit her lip; a whimper escaped her.

  “I’m not going to the banquet,” Eloise said, looking down at her shaking hands, dirty hands - remembering her mother’s clenched hands, trying to hide her dirty fingernails. Fighting back tears, the whole ugly argument poured out of her.

  An hour later Eloise sat on a stool while Nurse brushed out her long, amber hair. Should have been for the banquet, but now it was simply a routine before bed.

  “So soft it is,” the nurse cooed, breaking the brittle silence between them. “Luxurious as silk, dear.” Eloise didn’t answer. “Always liked this color on you, too,” the elderly woman observed regarding the surcoat. “Highlights your blue eyes and pearl white skin.”

  “They’re blue-grey,” Eloise corrected. Who cared, no one would ever see them save a handful of kin in the family tower?

  “So they are. All the more desirable, too.”

  Eloise didn’t respond.

  “You have many admirable attributes,” Nurse continued. “A little shy of medium height, not a giantess. And you’re learning to carry yourself regally, as your Lady Mother. Like her, you’re trim and modestly built.”

  Eloise knew her mother was the quintessential noble lady, quiet, subdued and elegant.

  “Not like some gluttonous Scragmuir cow,” Nurse continued.

  Indeed, Eloise could imagine what those Scragmuirs must look like, or rather what she hoped they looked like.

  “What you lack in womanly bosom can always be enhanced or padded. Until your mothering years.”

  Eloise sighed.

  “Your father wants only to protect you, dear,” the nurse continued. “To insist on singing may have been overlooked. But dancing, before strangers, is a bit provocative, sweet one, truly.”

  Eloise rolled her eyes. “Not you too,” she sighed. “Dancing and singing are suitable forms of entertainment for guests. Mathair and I sing all the time, it’s not a sin.”

  “By his will, the singing,” Nurse offered. “Your father might have agreed to that, later, if he saw fit. But you insisted. You demanded.” The nurse wiped a tear from her eye. “Lucky you are not to be beaten beyond recognition. Your father is tolerant, patient as a saint with you.”

  Eloise frowned, wiping away a tear herself. Why was it always her fault? Surely, she was the patient one, in a world so full of restraint and confinement. Often enough she was compared unfavorably to her saintly mother, but now her father, too. In silence the nurse continued to brush out her hair in long, gentle strokes.

  “By your will, go,” Eloise said. “Don’t miss the banquet.” Music, distant but joyous haunted the chamber, reminding Eloise of what she was missing.

  “With you here alone? We shall dine together,” Nurse answered. Faint laughter joined the music.

  “By your will, and the blessings of the saints, you can tell me what I missed. I won’t be alone,” Eloise pointed to the pair of hounds. Dragon yipped in her sleep, massive paws flicked as the prey fled before her in the dream. Beast stretched out by the bed. “I’ve some confessing and penance to do,” Eloise sighed. “And tell Muireann to wear the new apron.”

  The nurse frowned and started to disagree.

  “Don’t add guilt to the disappointment upon me.” Eloise never suffered alone, her parents saw to that. Her actions had serious consequences for many people, a burden of responsibility that came with her noble birth. “By your will, go, you and Sean toge
ther.”

  There was a loud bang on the door. The dogs barked, clambering to stand as the door swung open.

  “Mercy!” Nurse gasped in alarm, protectively standing before Eloise.

  “Eloise!” Hubert bellowed, striding towards her as she stood. Hubert’s hounds, and Beast and Dragon barked and exchanged robust greetings in the charged chamber.

  Nurse dropped to her knees, tugging at Eloise’s sleeve encouraging her to do the same. But Eloise stood rooted to the spot in the noise and canine chaos, unable to take her eyes off her father. “Be still!” Hubert shouted at the hounds. “Quiet.”

  Eloise managed to motion with her hands for the dogs to settle. “Shush,” she finally offered.

  Hubert had something in his hand. The Seanascal waited in the doorway, why? Hand shaking with wrath, Hubert thrust the object into her face.

  Her heart stopped as her stomach lurched. It couldn’t be, by her will let it not be.. She glanced at the Seanascal hoping this was a mistake. Not her fault. But she remembered now. Her heart resumed, pounding with deafening rhythm.

  “Do you recognise this?” her father growled, lifting her chin with it. She couldn’t mistake it or her father’s outrage. She closed her eyes to escape the shame, smelling the damp leather so close to her nose. He hit her chin with it when she didn’t answer.

  “I do, Da- Father,” she corrected. “The ledg-” but he slapped her chin again with the dog-chewed ledger, causing her to bite her tongue.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She did, struggling to keep them so.

  “The repository of castle resources,” he said, his face fixed and harsh. The bible of our wealth.” The torn flax parchment pages were still damp from chewing. “Left for the cur. While you dance!” drawing out the word dance in a hiss, vilifying it.

  Think. Answer him. She could not.

  He grabbed the side of her head with his free hand, pulling her hair as his fingers dug into her scalp. He shook her, then turned her face up to his.

  “On the morrow, you will complete your usual penance. Climbing the staircase. On your knees.” He thrust the damaged ledger in her hands. “Repair this best you can,” he said before turning to leave. He stopped at the door, his hounds already in the hallway. You owe the Seanascal grave apology.”

  Before she could utter the words, or better yet, throw herself at his feet, he was gone, the door closed.

  The banquet provided a grand time for most of the Dahlquin inhabitants. The evening meal had significant courses and morsels, but not the formal structure of some estate functions. This allowed everyone more opportunity to listen and share the festivities. Hubert understood even the lowest chambermaid or stable boy enjoyed a little entertainment. Keeping people alert and active made for more productive workers. It was important to reinforce that everyone had their God-ordained station in life, and it was their God-ordained duty to fulfill that station to the best of their God-ordained ability. The Church and hierarchy governing all their lives set very specific parameters for each life. The system was rigid and unbending, all were taught early who they were and what they were born to. Don’t argue with God’s plan: fulfill the duty as prescribed by the One above.

  As Lord of Dahlquin, Hubert’s God-ordained station was to keep his manor safely in the king’s hands, to keep this frontier of the kingdom secure for Ireland or England, depending on who was present. After that, to keep his tenants, workers, knights and their families safe and protected. It was his responsibility to anticipate sieges, attacks, famines, pestilence, anything that might affect the crops and livestock so vital to the survival of his military personnel, who in turn protected the realm. They were all interconnected: liege to each other at many levels. All men were not equal in the eyes of God, and most accepted it.

  RESIDENTIAL TOWER, LATE NIGHT

  Hubert, Aine, Reginald and Hubert’s hounds retired to the bed chamber.

  From the open door Hubert scanned the welcoming space. Four round, three-legged metal heating pots were lit, and the chamber held the familiar warmth and aroma of peat. Two wall sconces illuminated the stone and wood paneled chamber. A large bed was near one corner. A small square table stood near the head of the bed with a full pitcher of wine upon it. To shield the sleepers from the cold withheld by the stone wall, a woolen and linen covering of Dahlquin gold and blue was hung, decorated with embroidery and crewel work, depicting biblical and mythological images as well as Dahlquin family history. Celtic motifs were added by Connacht family members in recent years. Behind this decorative hanging was a thick felt pad for added insulation against the cold. On this same wall, an arched door opened to Aine’s private chamber. Behind the door Aine’s dog, Dilis, barked for admittance.

  “Let him come,” Hubert said, waving a hand toward the closed door, so wife and dog might be reunited. One of the attendants opened the door and Dilis raced across the chamber.

  Against the adjacent wall two carved wooden chests stored Hubert’s robes, garments, mail and armour. A rectangular table stood against the next wall with an ewer and bowl. Two chairs and two stools were available, and two small round stumps with the bark removed and the wood polished, for use either as stools or tables. One of the attendants stood ready with three cups of wine. Two more servants waited for Hubert’s command.

  “May you have goodness,” Hubert said to the attendants as he, Aine with dog in arm, and Reginald entered behind the thumping tails of his hounds. Hubert nodded to each of his servants and with the wordless finesse of hunters each saw to his duty of service.

  Aine sat on a stool near one of the sconces, with a warming pot at her feet and her joyous dog in her lap. Just as quickly as she sat, her attendant, Daire, rushed in with a large distaff. Aine took it and set to work.

  “U’Neill,” Reginald sighed, “and the Danes.” He fell into a seat, exhausted after the banquet. His wine sat untouched. One massive dog tried to fit under Hubert’s chair, the other stretched between the men.

  “And mercenaries from the Hebrides. It’s civil war,” Hubert said. “Tiomoid is disowned. Banished. Following old Dermot of Leinster.”

  Reggie lifted his wine. “To Dermot MacMurrough of Leinster!” He continued his toast as if MacMurrough were in the chamber. “Ah, Dermot, you begged the second King Henry to send an army to help you regain your land back in 1169, ” he continued his toast without drinking, “but Henry, that calculating bastard-” he glanced at Aine, expecting a gasp or reprimand. When she merely shrugged, he proceeded. “Henry refused to send his own soldiers, cunningly indicating he wouldn’t stand in the way of any of his barons wishing to assist their Irish neighbor, thus launching our invasion.” Hubert and Reginald descended from these original families.

  “Old history,” Hubert said.

  “Your family history,” Aine said.

  “Instead of Welsh, Tiomoid’s dredged up the Vikings,” Reginald added.

  “Vikings,” Hubert said with a chuckle. “That is your family history,” he said to Aine.

  “Bless my greatest of great grand sires, Brian Boruma,” Aine replied. “The High King of all Ireland.”

  “Tiomoid only wishes to reclaim that crown for himself,” Reggie said. “He means to take us, without doubt. We support the king.”

  “All of them,” Hubert said. He and Reggie chuckled: Lord Hubert De Burgh of Connacht, High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert and Henry III of England, depending on who was in attendance. Like he himself, the Irish lords lived independently from English rule as much as possible. Most fighting was done between the Irish themselves in an effort to dominate the island. England was just as content to leave them to it.

  Reginald looked tired and stooped a bit. Still a formidable man, Hubert knew. “Does it smell of France or England? With us the pawns?” Reginald asked. Already the army consisted of foreigners: how many more backers were there, hungry for the glories of Ireland? “Tiomu has naught but the promise of land and wealth to offer such an army. It’s not revenge he seeks, but title. He w
ould make himself king, and spit on the rest of the U’Neills.”

  “Aine, my love, what do you think? Are Henry of England or Louis of France behind this?” Hubert asked his ever-patient wife.

  Aine set down her distaff, rubbed her brow and smiled at her husband and Reggie. She glowed with warmth and light from the sconces.

  “Sorrow upon me, my Lord, who am I to conjecture? It does seem unlikely. Their concerns lie in England and on the mainland. Henry is yet a boy. His deputies struggle with his barons and the disasters his father left. Louis has taken up the cross and plans a return to Outremere. His interests lie well east of us.”

  “Times like this, I wish you were a sorceress, or seer,” Hubert smiled at her. “Eh, give me a little glimpse.”

  “Ashes are what you would have,” Aine answered.

  In morbid response, Reggie lifted his roughened sword hand and imitated a sifting motion, as if ashes were filtering through his fingers.

  Aine winced.

  Far too often she had been accused of just that, Hubert knew. Eloise too. Ellie. He suppressed a groan. God’s eyes, why was she so incorrigibly foolish? Always arguing. So much at stake. He shook his head. Clearing the vision of his daughter.

  “She’s Irish. We’re always squabbling, aren’t we?” Aine said. “And she is Dahlquin.”

  Hubert blinked. Mayhap he hadn’t suppressed the groan. “Seems you can see into my thoughts. Why not Tiomu’s?” Hubert asked.

  “What are we to do, in regard to the army?” Aine asked, directing the conversation back to the crisis before them.

  Hubert shrugged. “Doubled the watch. Ladders ready, barrels, and arms assembled. Just in case.”

  Their guests were quite sure the army headed east, intent on taking revenge in Meath. Hubert’s latest envoy had not returned and that vexed him. Tiomoid U’Neill was but one more displaced young son seeking to put himself upon a throne.

  “We’ve not a quarrel with Meath, would you allow access?” Aine’s question was rhetorical.