Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Albert watched her sternly. What devilment was she about at this foul hour, he wondered. Had she come to mock his failure? Surely not, Mor was not such a low woman. He scratched his back side in contemplation.

  “You’re up early,” she continued as her gaze moved slowly in the dim light as if taking attendance, “and in want of fair sport. Saint Marta has her hands full.”

  Albert turned his gaze upon his wife’s two yawning, mid-aged attendants. Curse his eyes, they were lively enough entertainment, for Mor, in the female tower. He suddenly felt like wee Ruidori, unable or in this case unwilling to speak.

  “My gracious Lady Mor,” Eoch said bowing with exaggerated flourish, “are we to have the pleasure of your favors as we break fast this morn? What morsel of nourishment might I bring down for you whenst I plunder the wilds of your kitchen?”

  Albert gave Eoch a harsh glance. The betrayer! Was there not enough gloom this morning without Mor and her attendants underfoot? Had Albert not endured the compulsory mass before embarking on the merest hope of a pleasant pass time with his companions?

  Mor dipped her head, a sly smile softening her face. Curse her foolish attempt at coquettishness, he thought. Why didn’t he bundle her off to some convent, indeed, a distant, sunny convent in Spain?

  “May you have goodness for the kind invitation,” Mor said, “but regretfully, I must decline. I anticipate it’s rough company this morning.” She nodded to Albert.

  Had he heard correctly, Albert wondered? Eoch, The Betrayer, looked disappointed, but Mor smiled with her overly kind, aging eyes.

  “Wise choice, Lady,” Albert concurred, again raising his eating knife in relief. “Save yourself!” he bellowed with approval.

  “While you ransack the kitchens, I shall speak with the stable master and huntsman.”

  Huntsman. Albert heard one or perhaps two of his guards murmur.

  “And why not? Such a radiant idea, Lady. Why didn’t I think of such?” Albert asked, truly wondering why he had not, for hunting was a splendid diversion. Always welcome.

  “With a kitchen to pillage? Your mind was elsewhere. I’ve assurance, once fortified with wine and bread, you would have concocted the grand scheme yourselves,” Mor answered.

  The men laughed, and Albert smiled.

  “With your leave, Lord Husband, we’ll attend to the preparations.”

  As Mor and her attendants retreated, Albert turned with the steady deliberation of a seventy-two-year old knight and walked with his men to raid the kitchens. Convent indeed. Perhaps he would keep her around, at least through the Yule.

  After a suitable raid upon the kitchen, Albert and his men converged on the stables. Three huntsmen had three packs of five or six hounds each leashed and straining at their collars while the stable attendants finished tacking the hunting coursers. Albert and his seven knights strung their bows, then drew and flexed and drew again. Ten squires and attendants assembled the gear and helped with seventeen horses.

  Great sport, archery, Albert thought as his squires helped him with his hip quiver: a noble pursuit for hunting.

  “You’ve ten broad heads, Lord,” one of the squires said, “and I’ll have twenty more for you.”

  Albert glanced at the lad in the dim lamp light, wondering if thirty would be enough.

  “I’ll pack some more, Lord,” the squire said before directing one of the other squires in Albert’s attendance to raid the armory for more arrows.

  “I’ve more than enough, Sire,” Eoch said. “Do you I could continue shooting in joyous merriment while my Lord’s quiver was bare?”

  “More like joyous abandon,” Albert said, unable to contain his smile.

  “I must concur, my shooting skills are lacking, Lord. Gladly I would exchange these hunting tools for my shield in your service,” Eoch said, holding his bow up as if it were a shield.

  “Its archery practice you need, Eoch,” said one of the knights.

  “Perhaps you hide behind your shield too much,” said another with a chuckle.

  “Eoch, hide?” Albert barked then smiled at his companion. “The great battering ram of the Hospitalers was merely hiding?” Albert threw his arm over his eyes as if blocking the vision of this new revelation.

  “Fear upon me, my greatest shame is revealed, my Lord,” Eoch said, making a half bow, “too cowardly even to grace a bow and arrow.”

  “Well, so be it,” Albert said, seeing the stable master signal that the horses were ready. “Today we’re all cowards, eh? For archery it is. Saddle up before the noon sun melts us. We’re less than a fortnight from solstice.”

  “With arrow or lance against the wild beasts of Ashbury, and without armour save light chain mail? Not cowardice, Lord, but game sport,” one of his knights said.

  “Sounds like an indulgence, sir,” Eoch mocked, swinging into the saddle of his tall, red mare. “If you are to blandish our good Lord Albert, then do so with flair.”

  “Are you suggesting, sir, that I lack sincerity?” the knight asked, as he swung into the saddle, rechecking the bow in its sheath on his horse.

  “Not more than I,” Eoch said, smiling grandly. “I’m exceedingly glad you didn’t suggest we escalate our bravado to some silly Greek escapade.”

  “Eh?” the knight said.

  Albert and all his men were staring at Eoch for an explanation.

  “To prove we’re not cowards. Perhaps you would suggest we embark, naked as Adam came, and engage a bear in hand-to-hand combat,” Eoch said

  “Don’t you mean sword to paw?” Albert asked, laughing when Eoch’s expression dropped in exaggerated dismay.

  “Again, Lord, you’re too wise for me,” Eoch said, dipping his head but never taking his laughing eyes off Albert.

  “Enough. Let us depart.”

  As the hunting party moved farther from Ashbury castle, thick fog was illuminated by the nearly full moon, sinking on the western horizon. Albert pondered once again if this might be how death appeared. Although purgatory was presented as fire, burning the soul of sins to prepare it for admittance to Heaven and the direct friendship with God, Albert couldn't help but observe the solemnity of this dense fog with the gloom of the grave. Excrement, he muttered to himself, enough of death: at least not his own mortality, but hopefully death to some worthy stag or boar or bear. If he were to face his death, let it be this noble day, by God’s will, pitted against the largest bear in the grand forest of Ashbury estate. And not naked as Adam, he chuckled to himself.

  “Forthwith!” he declared, urging his horse to walk faster.

  “So be it,” Eoch concurred, “seems the hounds acknowledge your enthusiasm. They’re extra noisy this morning. My horse seems leery.”

  “Mine, too, Lord,” one of the knights said, his voice raised to be heard over the barking. “Wolves seem unlikely with the hounds at bay.”

  “Wolves? We’re still in the farmlands. There is naught but row upon row of crops,” another knight said.

  “Well cultivated, perhaps the horses want to graze upon the flax, beans and barley,” the first knight answered.

  Albert blinked, feeling the weight of accumulated fog in his lashes, his face and hair wet with it. The air was moist and fresh, the aroma of turned soil, horses, and damp leather. The smells of life.

  “Fog spriggans,” Albert said, acknowledging the ancient wisdom of his domain, and the animals’ ability to see what he could not.

  “They sense something,” Eoch agreed, smiling with anticipation, patting his mare's neck.

  Eoch's mare lifted her head; muzzle up, she emitted a high-pitched neigh.

  Albert and his men were silent, straining to listen, but all anyone could hear was the relentless barking of the hounds. Again, the red mare neighed, a long shrill call through the fog. Two other horses neighed as well, believing there were more horses.

  “Silence those hounds!” Albert growled, knowing it was futile. The restrained hounds barked and howled, begging to be loosed, to pursue the mighty prey
that he and his men so longed to run down.

  “Poachers don’t have horses,” one of the knights said.

  “Too dark yet for priests or merchants to be on the move,” another said.

  “Herd of ponies, perhaps,” Eoch speculated.

  One of the hounds yelped.

  “Ponies would be a nuisance. Huntsman!” one of the knights called to the man in charge of the men with the tethered hounds. “Will you be able to keep the beasts off the herd?”

  “I will, Sir,” the Huntsman answered. “We’ll hold them back to be sure.”

  “Down ya cur!” one of the men said, and another hound yelped. “Quiet!”

  “Well, we certainly have the advantage of stealth and surprise,” Eoch said, his wry smile accented by his arched eyebrow. “Let’s hope the hounds don’t eat these sleepy travelers in their tents.”

  “Indeed,” Albert said, his voice loud. “We have neither musicians or ladies cackling.”

  “It’s quiet as the grave,” one of the knights observed, “by hunting standards.”

  “We’ll hardly instill fear in our prey. Surely the deer are sleeping,” Eoch said.

  “Forthwith, huntsmen! Take the hounds and find something!” Albert shouted. Men and dogs ran ahead into the damp curtain.

  Again, the anxious horses neighed, calling into the fog as it consumed the huntsmen and hounds.

  This time Albert heard the answering neigh, distinct and distressingly close.

  “Albert,” Eoch said, caution in his voice, as his mare stopped.

  “I heard it,” Albert assured him, also halting his horse which anxiously pranced in place. Spriggans were known to distort sound, making familiar things seem foreign and discerning the location impossible. One moment the horse sounds close as if he were to step upon it; the next moment, the beast seems far behind him.

  Barking, growling and then a sharp screech pierced the fog.

  “Run!” the huntsman shouted his voice an urgent command in the mist.

  Another yelp and screech. Something was killing the hounds.

  “Run! Run!”

  “That's the huntsman,” Eoch said.

  “Lord!” the huntsman shouted. “Army! Archers!”

  Shouting, barking, confusion…Albert could see nothing in the grey mist.

  Albert's knights encircled him. At Eoch’s direction the squires lined up before them, bows drawn into the blinding fog. The horses continued to paw or skitter. The fog seemed to press back upon Albert with the force of this unseen enemy.

  “Back to the castle!” the huntsman shouted. “Go, go-”

  Albert thought the man had been silenced. Archers? How many? Who would attack?

  “Not a word,” Eoch hissed to the knights. “My Lord,” Eoch said in a low voice to Albert, “we must get you back to the castle.”

  Albert's mind was spinning as he tried to assess the situation. Retreat? From who? This was his domain. He and his men were lightly armed for a hunt, not battle. They rode hunting coursers, not destriers. What if it were just a raiding party, stealing horses and livestock? He and his men could easily dispatch such vile perpetrators. Wouldn't that be a grand adventure, far better than a mere hunt? For the glory of Ashbury.

  “Lord Albert,” Eoch hissed again, maneuvering his red mare close to Albert's horse. “We’re too few-”

  A rain of arrows pelted them. Two of his knights swayed, arrows stuck in them. All the horses spun, some with arrows protruding.

  “To the castle,” Eoch called, his voice firm and low. “Now!”

  “I agree,” Albert said, signalling to his men. One of his knights was tottering in the saddle. Albert turned, cueing his horse to gallop home.

  As more arrows fell upon them, Albert understood this was not a raiding party. An army. That’s what the huntsman said.

  “Ride, Lord,” Eoch urged close on Albert's left side. Eoch rode with his right arm and sword outstretched, covering Albert's back. “Head down.”

  Arrows fell upon Albert and his men, but they were not blanketed. Unable to see through the fog and semi-darkness, Albert figured the archers could only shoot in the direction of the castle.

  “What?” a knight said.

  “Fuck!” cursed Eoch.

  Coming up behind Albert, Cerberus appeared. Three heads bent, tongues draped out, flapping like ears. The hounds were still tethered together, their necks and shoulders bearing the weight of their collars like yokes and dragging behind them their unanticipated burden: two dead hounds. It was a rampaging hazard as the frightened team veered toward Albert’s horse in an attempt to gain the easiest passage back to the kennel. The dead hounds’ bodies bounced and spun, further scaring the live hounds and horses. Hemmed in by Eoch and his mare, Albert’s courser kicked at the canine pack nearly under his hooves.

  “Ride, I’ll try and divert them!” Eoch shouted, pulling well back from Albert and his galloping horse.

  “Shoot them!” Eoch shouted back at the knights, as Albert tried to ride wide of the pack.

  The hounds were falling back, tiring, he prayed. Never did Albert think his men would be hunting his own damn dogs. Never did he think he would be the damned hunted, Albert reflected. As quickly his mind raced on. Secure the castle. Regroup. Then grind these attacking bastards to dust. Whoever they were.

  His horse shortened its stride, and Albert just had time to prepare to jump as his horse leaped over the stone fence just looming into vision. Glancing back, he saw Cerberus nearly split in two as a single hound’s body cleared the fence, tail-end first, while the other two hounds were caught up. Next to the hounds Eoch came up out of the fog, and another of his knights. Albert returned his focus to the ride, trusting his horse to feel its way through the mist, because at this speed Albert could see little. Could the horses maintain this pace all the way back to the castle? For the glory of Ashbury, they must.

  CONNACHT, 8th of June

  “Damn it, Roland!” Sir Guillaume exclaimed as he peered through the dragon’s breath of remote western Connacht.

  “Face it, man, we’re lost!” Sir Sedric added. Seemed this island was always shrouded in fog. Sometimes it was so thick a man could barely see his own mount’s ears before him. Other times it was thin, wispy and undulated. Figures seemed to appear and retreat within the misty depths, enigmatic sprites or lost souls trapped in some other plane between earthly life and the spirit world. Dragon’s breath indeed.

  The fog was unrelenting. Roland, his friends Guillaume and Sedric, and two squires had wandered the wilderness of the western marches for a day and this very morning with nary a sign of humanity. Stories were oft told of travelers lost riding in the mist ‘til death or madness overtook them, their bodies often found at the very gates of the castle they sought.

  Sitting tall in the saddle, Roland tried to scan the horizon. Seemed they headed northeast, yet Ashbury Castle eluded them. He didn’t wish to admit they were lost. The Scragmuirs had been quite clear in their directions to Ashbury: it was half a day’s ride between the two estates. Black hair curled by the moisture stuck to his brow, he inhaled the clean scent of dew and pine. A fine place to be granted a fief. Only by great feats of bravery and loyalty were such land holdings awarded, an honor to be sure. This felt more like ostracism. Had not the Dahlquins been dispatched to settle this hostile parcel of island three generations back? Surely Roland had done naught to earn the disfavor of High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert of Leinster, deputy of William de Burgh of Connacht who himself represented King Henry of England. Nay, Gerald FitzGilbert was well pleased to send Roland.

  “Roland, has the fog clogged your ears? We’re lost,” Guillaume said.

  None of these five men had ever ventured to this far corner of Ireland, and up until now they had navigated the fortnight journey from southeastern Leinster across the Shannon River to Connacht without so much as a missed meal. Hospitality and good intentions greeted them throughout. But western Connacht seemed to be off the map entirely.

  “I’m n
ot lost,” Roland smiled broadly to his companions. “I’m with you.”

  “Well, I’m lost,” Guillaume responded, unimpressed.

  “And us,” Sedric said, indicating himself and the two squires.

  “Not so, you’re with me. So long as we’re together we can’t be lost,” Roland offered. “Let’s try this way.”

  The men followed Roland.

  “Any chance we have reached the end of the world?” murmured one of the squires. He could envision a large imaginary dragon in the deepest sleep on some mountaintop. With each exhalation the slumbering beast continued to bathe the island in thick, damp fog.

  “Bah,” his friend said, “you’re a nit.” Still both young men crossed themselves as they followed the knights further into the fog of Connacht.

  Roland and his men rode on an open stretch of track, orchards on one side and on the other side divided strips of land, some fallow, others with workers weeding. Ahead were two oil cloth covered wagons, pulled by one mule each, family members walking alongside. Merchants, but Roland couldn’t see their wares.

  The track of road was wide with deep ruts, seemingly in both directions, and a blur of horse and animal prints.

  “Plenty of travel and commerce,” Guillaume said, his slanted blue eyes looking down briefly, then ahead. His thinning, blond hair hung limp with the weight of the mist.

  “I agree, mayhap all roads lead to Ashbury,” Sedric added, scanning the misty surroundings of open meadow, grasses bent with accumulated moisture. In contrast to his tall companions, Sedric was stocky, arms like beef haunches and fists to match, with brown eyes and curly brown hair that frizzed in a grizzled tangle in the humidity.

  “The only damn road,” Guillaume said. “Pray Ashbury isn’t in a fucking bog.”

  The squires chuckled.

  Roland cast Guillaume a wary look.

  “All the more incentive to collect your rents and return to Leinster. Or Scragmuir,” Guillaume said, meeting Roland’s wary glance with a wry smile.

  Roland felt his horse stiffen. Artoch’s head came up, searching. One of the squires’ horses whinnied into the damp beyond. All the men came to attention, searching like their horses.