by Anne Beggs
Roland returned his empty bowl to Aine. “Pray they lied about Ashbury and relief may be at hand,” Roland said, looking over the gaunt, bruised faces. “Come,” he said to Eloise, cueing his horse away.
“Go?” she said, as Roland left.
Eloise bristled with each stride Garth took away from the farmstead. “You heard what they said, Ashbury is under siege,” she reiterated.
“Probably, but I must see for myself. It’s only a slight detour from Leinster.”
Leinster was a ridiculous idea. Four long days from home and even longer back were High Lord FitzGilbert to send aid. Uncle Reggie would never have proposed such in his right mind.
“Lord, by your will, they haven’t any food,” she started, keeping her voice low, gentle. “We two could hunt and trap, smoking the excess for Dahlquin castle. Confidence upon me, we could hide out from Tiomu’s men-”
“Confidence have you?” Roland huffed.
Was he mocking her? She wasn’t sure, but time was wasting.
“I have,” she said. Eloise decided not to share her ideas of fortifying the farmers and making more bows and arrows, as well as storing food. “They’re unprotected,” she offered. “We could hide the children at least. I have the responsibility.” This was her role in the social trinity of their society: pray, work or fight, and fighting meant power and protection.
“Protection is your father’s responsibility,” Roland said, emphasizing the word, “not yours, and not today.”
Was he insinuating her father was negligent? Or did he mean to suggest she was insufficient? He was a stranger. Eloise stared, searching for clues, hoping he would clarify his statement. He stared back. She watched his features darken from anger to aggression.
She glared into his deep brown eyes, searching for answers. Who are you, what do you know of Dahlquin, of our lives? Roland sat back, sucking in his breath before turning his head, jaw clenched, lips pursed. Was that fear she had seen?
After a long pause Roland turned to her. “You,” he said, pointing his gloved finger, “are my responsibility.”
“Your burden, you mean,” she said, feeling her own frustration.
“Would you dishonor your uncle’s memory? It was his command.”
Now it was Eloise who sat back so deep in the saddle Garth stopped, pitching her forward. She cued Garth on, the necessity of managing a five-year old stallion overriding the howl of anguish in her gut. “Good boy,” she cooed, caressing his withers, encouraging Garth to resume his ground-eating amble. How many miles, how many adventures? So many images and memories of Uncle Reggie and her father came to Eloise in the ambling rhythm. Sit up. Back straight. Don’t let him root like that, you’re riding a horse not a pig. You are Dahlquin, someday you’ll understand. Eloise knew she was heir to Dahlquin, but it was a place. She was a maiden. And here they were at the familiar stone fence, the boundary between Dahlquin and Ashbury.
“The castle is but one and a half hours riding time,” she announced to Roland as they approached. “The fence is easily jumped, but we can pass through.” To deter cattle escaping from estate to estate, the opening was disguised by straight line stone barricades. Horses and people could easily traverse, but broad cattle were disinclined to wedge themselves in. Eloise continued, “The main road is open. Cattle easily lost.”
Before they passed through, something caught her eye.
“Oh, wait!” she said, dismounting. “Oh, by your will, by your will,” she muttered, sneaking along the stone fence line. Garth took a step and a twig snapped. Small birds took wing. Eloise glanced back, pointing an accusatory finger at her stallion, but Garth was nibbling as if nothing had happened. Eloise put her hands together in prayer once more, Blessed Mother Goddess, if it pleases you. Eloise stepped carefully, walking on the sides of her feet, the smallest thus quietest surface, her hand moving along the roughhewn stone for balance. May you have my gratitude upon you, Blessed Mother, Eloise mouthed when she saw the black eyes of the female grouse unmoving on her nest. If she were stealthy enough…breathe in, breathe out, slowly, she moved her foot then her hand, easing along the fence. Don’t stare directly at the bird, she reminded herself. Watch with soft eyes, unfocused. The grouse moved her head then froze again. Eloise knew if she could get closer, closer…. The feathers were such a marvel of camouflage and would make stunning fletching were she going home. Eloise eased forward. The bird moved her head again, then spread her wings. Eloise sprang at the bird, hands reaching for the darting grouse. She felt the silky feathers soft and full against her palm and fingertips as she clamped her hands closed.
Only feathers.
“Oh, damn that!” Roland exclaimed as the mother hen soared away in distress. “Sorrow upon me,” Roland added in apology.
Eloise, too, was disappointed. The bird seemed so surely in her grasp. But her hunt wasn’t over.
“Look at the gift Ashbury has for you, Lord,” Eloise said holding up three warm eggs. “The bird would have been a bonus, but here is your first meal in Ashbury,” she said, setting the eggs on the fence while she dug out her eating knife. She chipped the top of one. “Saints blessing upon you,” she said, handing it to Roland.
Roland took the egg, held it up and examined it from several angles. Eloise was already chipping another.
“Like this?” he said, putting it to his lips like a chalice. He looked pale.
“Like that, immature, just yolk and white.”
Roland gulped it down then hesitated. “Not bad,” he smiled. She handed him the second. “Aren’t you going to have it?” he asked.
“May I have the last?”
“With your will, and the blessings of the saints,” he said, waiting for her to chip the last egg. “Prosit,” he said lifting the little egg to his mouth.
“Prosit.” Eloise exalted as the warm, thick egg slipped from the fragile shell into her mouth. Was there ever anything so good as fresh found eggs when lost in the wild? Using her tongue to blend the white and yolk on the roof of her mouth, she savored the rich, moist texture. It was a challenge to allow small portions of the viscous egg to slip down her throat. As she swallowed the last, Eloise prayed the mother grouse would lay another clutch soon enough.
She got back in the saddle and they moved on.
“So, this is Ashbury,” Roland said looking around.
“This is Ashbury. Not Dead-Man’s-” she paused, “not At-March. Your fief is southwest.”
“I’ve never seen it, or any of Ashbury,” Roland said.
“You have never been to Ashbury Castle?” Eloise asked. “How? Why did you come to Dahlquin?”
Roland seemed to think long and hard before answering.
Waiting for an answer, Eloise wondered what sort of looby she might be burdened with. Then she smiled, remembering a lost knight five years past. The large roads were marked, but if a traveler got on one of the paths or trails…and hadn’t Sir Sedric mentioned being lost? She was born here; even now she led Roland on trails known only to Dahlquin or Ashbury.
“We were sorely misdirected,” Roland reminded her, “by Tiomu’s men.”
“At council,” she sighed, remembering his story. Mayhap she was the looby. “Ho,” she said, sitting back. Garth stopped.
“What?” Roland asked.
“This isn’t right.”
In the meadow before them was a large herd of shaggy red cattle and a newly constructed wooden pen. Inside the pen were about 40 calves. Anxious mothers grazed nervously outside the pen, while the rest of the herd hung close.
“This pen is new,” Eloise said as she studied the herd of about one hundred.
“Lord,” she continued, “have you ever herded?”
Roland gave her a puzzled look but didn’t answer.
“It’s a small herd, but there are only the two us. If we loose the calves, we could drive the herd to Ashbury, and-”
“Is it market day? Or have you forgotten we’re at war?” he said with a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Surely th
e miles have taken a toll on you,” he added with a kinder tone, dipping his head only slightly in patronizing acquiescence.
Eloise ignored his comments, knowing when he heard her plan he would leap into action. It was so obvious. “Dahlquin will help itself,” she murmured to more puzzled looks from Roland. “We stampede the herd over Tiomu’s army.” Isn’t that what she had promised the farmers? The blood of Tiomu’s traitors would succor the land. But she hadn’t imagined it so blatant. How prophetic. She couldn’t help smiling.
“Daftness upon you. It would take days to get there,” Roland said, no longer puzzled. “And I’ve never driven a herd to market or slaughter,” he added in a low tone, but Eloise suspected he was contemplating the possibilities.
She looked at the sky; was the sun peeking through the gloom? She saw startling blue, highlighted by a black cloud of equal portion. Brief rain. Always.
“It would take longer than an hour and a half,” she agreed. “But it would give us time to formulate our plan, mayhap pick up some extra hands along the way, and more cattle.”
The cattle grazed on the coarse green forage. One of the cows bawled for her calf in the pen and the calf wailed back to her, his knobby head poking through the wooden slats.
“You believe we can direct that band all the way to Ashbury?” Roland asked.
“Well,” she started, assessing the reality. “We are just two, without whips or staffs or dogs to do the hard work.” She sighed.
“I’ve never,” Roland said slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s try. And more work for Tiomu’s men to capture them again,” she added, brightening with that vision. “If I’m not to taint the meat, best disperse it far from Tiomu’s use.”
“Let’s try,” Roland agreed. “Loose the beasts,” he said with his brown eyes glinting.
They walked their horses toward the pen. Artoch balked, side passing away from the docile creatures.
“Easy,” Roland scolded, cueing hard with his legs as Artoch snorted but didn’t advance.
“He doesn’t think it’s such a grand idea,” Eloise said, amused by the great war horse showing such alarm at bovines.
“Set him upon a single bull and he’s all teeth,” Roland said, rolling his spurs up the stalled horse’s barrel. “But in a field of cows, he turns coward.”
“Horses,” Eloise shrugged, letting Garth graze amidst the herd hoping Artoch might settle seeing his companion at ease. “Do you fight with bulls much?” The grisly sport was fraught with unnecessary danger for the vulnerable horse.
“I wish there were more opportunity,” Roland said, “there’s little enough hunting in Leinster.” He grinned as Artoch walked briskly to Garth’s side, ears erect, nostrils dilated. “I suppose he is concerned the whole herd will rise up against him.”
Eloise was insulted and relieved when Roland didn’t ask if she had ever baited a bull. Her first and only episode baiting a boar had been a failure of epic proportion. Six months ago.
“Don’t come between the cow and calf,” Eloise instructed, smiling.
“You hear that, Artoch?” he asked, patting his horse’s neck as Artoch finally put his head down to snatch large clumps of turf which he chewed with his head up, keeping a vigilant eye on the suspicious cows.
Sitting amidst the herd, Eloise began to reconsider the idea. What if the herd was unbiddable? What if the stupid beasts returned to Scragmuir, all one hundred? Unthinkable. Which was worse, to feed Tiomu’s traitors or the dreaded Scragmuirs? The consequences were dire indeed, and none but this stranger’s counsel. Lifting her cross pendant to her lips, Eloise also lifted her eyes to the heavens. The divisive sky with both sun and rain gave not a clue, nor did the celestial host of helpful saints.
“Well,” Roland said, “have you had a turn of mind?”
“I’m weighing the consequences,” she admitted. “You are perceptive.”
“I’m not convinced about the stampede, but I’m all in favour of liberating the meat from Tiomu’s resource,” Roland said.
She tucked the pendant under her surcoat. “Release the beasts,” she said with renewed commitment, cueing Garth to the gate.
“Halt!” a man cried out.
“Do not!” shouted another.
Eloise saw two men running towards them with staff and pole in hand. Roland drew his sword.
“Open it,” Roland commanded her. She did, and the calves sprinted past her to their mothers.
“Do not!” screamed the men waving their arms and tools as they ran.
Unperturbed, the cattle returned to their foraging while the calves butted and suckled their mothers. Eloise pulled her bow over her shoulder, her fingers wrapped around the leather grip, secure in their placement. Thus embraced, Cara hummed in her grasp. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked and took aim at the man with the longer, more dangerous staff. The men didn’t attack, but quickly spread around the grazing herd. She let down. They were not a threat from that distance.
“Who are you to steal these cattle?” Roland yelled back at them.
“Lord Tiomoid of the U’Neill’s,” the man with the pole said, almost in tears. “He has laid siege to Ashbury-”
“Siege to all of Connacht,” the man with the staff interrupted. “Dahlquin, Scragmuir and Ashbury are his.”
“Scragmuir!” Eloise gasped, still trying to get the herd on the move.
“Tiomu’s lies grow by the day,” Roland said, scowling at Eloise for speaking out of turn. He gave the men a quick glance. “We have come to deliver these beasts to Ashbury Castle directly, now help us get them moving,” he said, then turned his attention back to Eloise. “El,” he said waving his arms.
“Haw, haw!” she shouted to the cattle, waving her arms, arrow still nocked in her bow. “Go, go, go!” she yelled, cueing Garth into the ambling, shaggy mass.
“By your will, I’m begging,” one of the men pleaded.
“Out of our way!” Roland barked at them. “Traitors like you deserve to be trampled.” Roland was also waving his arms at the slow-moving cattle.
“Not traitors, not!” the two cattle men shouted. But they continued to keep the herd calm and together, in direct violation of Lord Roland’s command.
Roland poked a cow with the tip of his sword, and she leaped out of his way, only to start grazing out of reach of his sword tip. “Horns,” Roland growled, kicking at the unmoving cows. “Tails,” he snarled, again poking a cow with his sword. Ears back, the cow eyed him. “Cloven hooves. They’re Satan, I tell you.”
Eloise gulped hearing Roland utter Satan’s name. Unable to grab her wooden pendant tucked in her surcoat, she crossed herself three times, praying for protection from any image of Satan.
The cows gave Roland little heed, though he and Artoch were well-armed and fierce.
“Connacht is overrun with God-cursed hellions!” Roland shouted, but the reunited herd shuffled along amiably among themselves, grazing or touching noses.
“These cattle are for Ashbury!” Eloise shouted, still waving her arms and kicking at the cows before her. “The traitor will taste his beef on the hoof!” she yelled; her voice shrill as the cattle finally began to move as one.
“My son and daughter. U’Neill will kill them!” the man with the staff cried out, whacking one of the cows as she trotted past. “He has taken the children.”
Eloise sat up, staring at the man as she ambled past. She knew hostages were used to coerce the laborers against their feudal lords or tribal chieftains. Isn’t that how Tiomu got her father’s men to build his siege engines? It was too horrible, too cruel. But to capitulate was to serve the greater evil. The father was running with the cattle, risking death to turn the herd. Was she willing to accept responsibility for his death and his children’s? His children may already be dead, with more to come under such tyranny.
“Haw, haw, haw!” she yelled at the trotting cattle, sweat sticking to her neck and under her arms. “Tim U’Neill must be defeated,” she said, ho
ping this was the right decision.
“El!” Roland shouted. “Run. Tiomu’s men. Run!”
Eloise looked up, which way? Roland was galloping towards her, his sword arm waving her southeast, away from the trail to the castle. With Cara and arrows in hand, she could easily shoot the riders, but Roland obscured her view. Without time to return her arrow to her quiver or sling her bow over her back, she leaned down and Garth lunged forward with Reggie’s shield banging on her back, and this time the cattle parted like the Red Sea.
“Run!” Roland continued shouting as if she were standing still. Run Garth did, like a Connacht wind, blowing over the land. With each expanded stride forward, Garth sucked in air. With each contraction, he expelled it. It was a divine rhythm, and Eloise felt blessed to share it. Grisly sport, racing. She blocked such thoughts from her mind. Never consider falling. Commit to the ride. Fly.
Her eyes teared up with the wind in her face and she held lightly to the reins with one hand, Cara and the arrow held carefully by her hip. Garth’s four black hooves pounded out a one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three beat as they hurtled over the open and uneven terrain.
Garth had ridden hard, and they must slow down. Eloise peeked back under her arm. Roland and Artoch were mere specks behind her.
She sat up and exhaled slowly. Garth plunged on. “Easy,” she said, touching the reins, sitting taller, leaning back until she thought the wind might unseat her. “Easy!” she barked, massaging the reins more vigorously, forcing her seat to move in a slower movement to Garth’s. “Good boy,” she cooed, again slowing her movements. She picked up the reins, slow down, she thought. Garth resisted. Eloise blew her breath out, pushed her feet forward and firmly massaged the reins, asking for collection. Finally, Garth transitioned into an easy canter, down to a walk. When he started “talking” in relaxed horse grumble, Eloise knew he had returned to her fully. She stroked his lathered neck as he moaned to release tension. “Was there ever such a partner?” she asked him in a murmur. Uhugh uhugh uhuhuh he groaned.