by Anne Beggs
Strange thinking, he mused. Animals were simple creatures. They felt no pain, surely. They had no immortal soul and lacked the intelligent thought of men who were made in God’s image. God gave us the animals to eat or work. Why should we feel remorse in that use? Roland wondered. Man struggled to maintain separation from the animals. The similarities could not be denied, but the Bible dictated that man held dominion, a standard was set. What a strange girl, to empathize with animals.
“Do you hunt much?” Roland asked.
“Oh, indeed, I hunt often,” she sighed. “I do love to ride, and the chase is exhilarating, truly. But the killing, when it’s cruel or wasteful, too much shame to bare. I hunt to eat, not for sport. Mayhap if the prey were silent. It’s the terror and agony I hate.”
“They’re simple creatures, El, nothing more. It’s God’s plan.”
“Then why don’t they just die on the table?” she huffed. Theologians argued that humanity must maintain the dominion that God bestowed. Only a heretic would disagree. At a university learned scholars discussed just such topics, Eloise thought. Aristotle would be read at length, Abelard and Bernard of Clairveaux analyzed, Anselm, Hildegard, so many questions. “I know, because God helps those who help themselves. Sloth is a sin.”
“Good examples,” Roland said, apparently conceding she did know the scriptures. “It’s our place to be strong and well-practiced. And it’s good fun.”
Eloise dipped her head to Roland, feeling acknowledged.
“You like bird, then?” she asked slowing her pace.
“I like bird. Not more raw eggs, by your will.”
Philosophy set aside, Eloise dismounted and handed him the reins. “Wait here. By your will.”
Walking on the sides of her feet, she eased to the waterway. The fresh scent of clean water and delicate vegetation caused her empty stomach to ache. Bow pointed down, Eloise nocked a bodkin, holding the nock between her pointing and middle finger. Even now she sensed Cara's soul, resonating within her palm, sealing their purpose: survival. Tall reeds lined both sides of the stream and small birds darted in between, feasting on the gnats and flies. Crows cawed in the trees above, warning all that she approached. In the distance a friendly bell tinkled announcing the presence of a flock of sheep. Bleating followed on the breeze.
Eloise crouched and peered through the reeds at a large heron, with its shimmering silver and grey body, a white head and a mantle of long white feathers down his elegant serpentine shaped neck and across his back. Stalking fish just as she stalked him. Or was he? Grey herons were amazing birds, and it seemed they would eat anything only slightly smaller than themselves. With a pang of guilt, she recalled the heron she had witnessed catch a rat, and after a considerable time of dunking, shaking and maneuvering, the heroic wading bird swallowed the squirming rat as if it were a furry fish. Hating rats as she did, she felt remorse in killing such a talented exterminator. But she was hungry, and more importantly, Roland was hungry. On other occasions, Eloise remembered herons that had swallowed ducklings as well as large fish and eels, an added bonus to a fine meal, if extracted soon enough. Never taking her eyes off the bird, she drew her bow, fingers anchoring at the edge of her mouth. The unsuspecting bird focused down the long shaft of his yellow beak just as Eloise poised with her ochre colored arrow. A blunt would be better, not mutilating the flesh and whatever bounty lay within, she thought, aiming at the narrow body of the stately waterfowl. Bodkins and broad heads were all she had. She aimed instead at his round, yellow eye. We too, have hunger, she thought in communal prayer with God's beloved fowl. Letting her breath out she released the arrow. The familiar ping, and a splash. Black birds took to the sky, the crows cawed their distress. Dragonflies caught the scant sun on their iridescent wings and darted about the confusion.
Her eye twitching, Eloise rubbed it with the back of her hand. Blood. She rubbed again, but it was gone. You bleed when you kill. Relieved, Eloise plucked the bird from the water as it floated by and she located her arrow stuck in the opposite bank. It was too far for her to jump, so she figured she would mount up and retrieve it. She blessed the heron and thanked the Great Mother for the offering. Emerging from the tall reeds, she held the dripping bird high for Roland to see. Clear of the foliage, she saw Roland smile and salute. The warm glow of pride spread over her like a cloak, and she couldn't help beaming back at him: pride, another deadly sin.
Roland leaned over, staring at her, as she approached. “Is your eye bleeding?”
Her hand went to her eye. “Probably from the fowl,” she said, hoping that would settle it. Eloise didn’t wish to reveal her anomaly, Guilt of the Huntress.
“Oh, you’ve smeared it. Use your sleeve,” Roland suggested, lifting his own arm pretending to wipe his eye.
“I'll gut this,” Eloise said, indicating the heron. If we're lucky, maybe there's some hidden game in his gullet. Then I'll braid some of the reeds as a thong to tie the bird with.”
Roland seemed to study her.
“In fact,” she said, as her mind returned to the reeds, “the tubers are not bad eating. I'll dig a few. Some mint and watercress, if I can find-,” she let the sentence trail off.
“You’re a right capable poacher,” Roland said with a smirk, swinging out of the saddle.
“Poa-ching,” Eloise responded, emphasizing the first syllable. “Oh, that’s such a low term,” she continued, deepening her voice. Then with a grin, “I prefer to think of it as larceny,” she said, feeling Cara ring with mirth at their complicity as she put the bow over her shoulder.
“Larceny, is it?” Roland laughed. “I'll gut the bird, you take care of the vegetation,” he said, searching her saddle bags for hobbles. “Seems I've been corrupted.” He hobbled Artoch. They both knew Garth wouldn't leave the herd.
“Corrupted? Not my Lord,” Eloise said, handing him the heron.
As if on cue, they both pulled their daggers.
Roland raised his dagger in salute, and Eloise returned the gesture.
“Partners in crime,” he said, touching the side of her blade with his, making an X.
Though Roland's touch was light, her dagger resonated in her palm. A soul? Then it was gone. He had withdrawn his dagger and returned to the bird as if nothing had happened. Partners. He called us partners. Eloise stared at the dagger in her hand. She tried to recall the sensation, had she imagined it? There wasn’t a hint of the vibration now.
“My Lord,” she said, swallowing hard before continuing. “Surely it isn’t poaching. We’re part of the nobility, and in service to High Lord FitzGilbert,” Eloise said, walking to the stream to cut the reed stems to braid and tie the bird to the saddle bags. And a stick to dig the tubers, she reminded herself.
“It’s a meagre exchange for service rendered,” Roland agreed as he cut the bird’s head off. “And the 'poached', poaching the King's fish,” Roland called out to her.
“Oh, it is!” she chirped, standing to look at Roland to see what type of game the heron had eaten. “Hidden fish indeed. Is it whole?”
“Whole,” he said.
“What bounty.”
“You would eat this?” Roland asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “Do you see a stick up there? My arrow,” she muttered.
“Regurgitated fish?” he questioned, his voice sounding squeamish. “Not a stick,” to her other query.
Eloise walked up the bank with the reeds. Garth looked up from grazing and she strode over to stroke his forehead. “Good boy,” she cooed. Artoch looked up and both horses eyed the reeds. “Not for you,” she murmured, shaking her finger.
Hearing a plop, she looked to see Roland tossing the entrails. Silver caught her eye.
“You tossed our fish,” she said.
“As you see,” he said, pulling more entrails. “Want to rinse this out, as your boots are already damp?” he said, finally looking up.
With large wings tied to its feet, the headless, gutted heron hung from Eloise’s saddlebags, tub
ers and greens tucked inside.
“You have stowed away hearty provisions,” Roland said as they mounted up.
“May you have goodness, Lord,” she said, glancing again at the bulging saddle bags. This she could do. Provide nourishment. She smiled at Roland, then rode across the stream to retrieve her arrow.
After a while Roland broke the silence.
“Still mad about the fish?” he asked.
“Not mad,” she answered. “Curious, I suppose.”
“Curious about what?”
Eloise thought a moment longer. It was such a common custom, truly a boon to find such bonus. Roland was an unusual man. “You are, or at least you were a soldier, true?”
Roland nodded, “Even as Lord of Ashbury-at-March, I’m a soldier for FitzGilbert and King Henry.”
“You’re a soldier, yet you have never felt great hunger upon you.”
“Never had hunger?” he asked his voice rising dramatically. “Starvation upon me this whole trip.”
She waited for him to finish.
“You’re a Lord’s daughter, yet you have had such hunger upon you, you’d eat a raw fish?”
She had great hunger upon her, whether as punishment or to hone her hunting and foraging skills. Hungry people were resourceful. Lessons never more appreciated than now. She smiled. “I would have cooked it,” she said with a sniff. “Some raw fish is most excellent. And the roe,” she added.
“That is different entirely. And you know it,” he said.
New Pembrokeshire was all the sign read, but it said so much more; a clear delineation, a warning, not welcome, all these things Eloise felt as she willfully crossed the boundary. The estate of Lord Bryan FitzGilbert, nephew to High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert, was perhaps the most dangerous aspect of the journey after the escape. She could not fall into the lord’s hands. He had good reasons to take her hostage: revenge and marriage. Her skin tingled in the hostile air, each breath labored. Was the sky greyer? It was late-twilight-and darkening. Her eyes strained to see things that were not there.
Roland, too, seemed agitated. He hadn’t a quarrel with Lord Bryan, and probably wouldn’t wish a confrontation while awkwardly guiding her through the manor, she reasoned. They left the main road in hopes of skirting the edges of New Pembrokeshire. All was blessedly quiet as they cantered through this corner of the estate.
Roland had given little care to the devious politics of the feuding Irish nobility. His loyalty was to FitzGilbert and ultimately King Henry. Bryan had some cause for vengeance: Hubert had destroyed his father. Complicated issue, fathers and sons; Roland closed his eyes and willed the images out of his mind. Tiomu’s men behind them, Lord Bryan’s men lurking anywhere - and why not, it was his estate.
A good night’s sleep, beyond New Pembrokeshire, preferably not out in the woods, would be a welcome luxury. Some place with few other travelers.
Eloise pressed her stallion on, cantering down the trail in semi-darkness, anxious to put New Pembrokeshire behind her. The moon wouldn’t be so full as the nights past, making it imprudent to proceed in the dark.
“We’re almost out,” Roland said, relief and fatigue coloring his speech.
Eloise nodded and bit her lip, joy building to be free of this place.
“Wait-”
Eloise followed his gaze. “I see them,” she said, deflated.
“And they us.” He waved at the mounted figures. “We can’t go around now.”
“They could be travelers, like us,” Eloise said hoping, wishing, praying.
“Could be,” he looked at her, “probably not.” His eyes were hard and dark, fear and fatigue masked.
“I’m your page, and we’re off to Leinster,” she started, feeling it necessary to recount their strategy, practice the ruse.
“Don’t talk,” he said as they continued up to the riders. “If they’re just soldiers, fine. Knights might-,” he paused, “remember me. Damn,” he muttered.
Four knights dressed in the purple and white colors of Lord FitzGilbert of New Pembrokeshire hailed them. Eloise’s heart pounded. She tried to smile as if she had nothing to hide.
“Ho, you’re in a hurry so late,” one of the knights said.
“We are, and you?” Roland asked, trying to change the subject. “Lord Bryan works you hard.”
Eloise marveled how pleasantly Roland looked each man squarely in the eye, as if he had nothing to hide.
“Who’re you?”
“Lord Roland,” he said.
“Going to Ashbury, right?” a knight with a friendly voice acknowledged.
“I passed through on my way to Ashbury, some weeks past. I’m returning to Leinster.”
“Thought you looked familiar. Where’s the rest? Your companions?” the third knight asked, searching for additional riders.
“Ashbury-at-March, you have a fief. Back so soon?” queried the first knight. Eloise felt his suspicious gaze studying her. He lowered his head trying to see her downturned face more clearly. Why, she worried, would he be so interested in a mere page?
“My companions remain in Ashbury. I’ve returned to Leinster.”
“Connacht not to your liking? A fighting man as you should feel right at home, stuck between Scragmuir and Dahlquin.” The knights laughed.
“Who’s the boy?” the first knight asked. “Catch him poaching, did you?” Eloise wished they had hidden the bird for just this reason, but Roland countered it was better to present the bird shamelessly than hide it. Reckless it now seemed as the headless evidence hung in shameful display.
“El,” Roland sighed, nodding curtly towards her, “delivering him to High Lord FitzGilbert, as page. Then I’m back to Ashbury.” He made no offer of a proper introduction.
Eloise nodded her head, keeping her eyes down. She was impressed that Roland didn't even address the accusation of poaching. It’s not poaching while in the king's service, something they had both agreed on.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the knight with the friendly voice.
“Twelve, sir,” she stammered.
“Twelve? You’re a tall whelp,” said the friendly one.
“That’s old to start as a page,” said the first.
“I served Lord Albert,” she continued haltingly, lying as she went, “but he’s decided to foster me elsewhere.”
“So, he has.”
The men chuckled.
“Roland, take a lesson, it isn’t safe to be a man in Ashbury with all the in-fighting. That right, boy?”
Eyes still lowered, she nodded her head in agreement.
“Especially for Albert’s bastards,” the first knight added. “Wants you safe does old Albert?”
“Cuckhold,” another knight said with a snort.
Eloise hung her head. This was terrible, to be part of such a foul and false accusation.
“So it is,” said Roland, with a chuckle as well. “If you’ll excuse us, we’re off to Leinster. Come, El.” Roland prepared to salute in leaving.
“Bah,” said the first knight. “Come stay with the Lord. You can’t make Leinster tonight.”
As Eloise, and probably Roland, feared: an invitation. Lying came easily in battle with an enemy. This bordered on dishonorable. Eloise felt the sweat on her back.
“True,” Roland said, “but we can get a few more miles. And may you have goodness for the generous offer.” He urged Artoch forward.
“Nonsense to sleep out, when you have the hospitality of New Pembrokeshire,” the knight with the friendly voice said, his voice turning stern. Eloise looked around gauging the terrain, in case they had to run. “And so long as you have helped yourself to the Lord's game, the least you could do is have the courtesy to bestow proper appreciation and gratitude.”
Roland turned his eyes to glare at the knight, his head following. Eloise thought he gave a wry smile, or perhaps a smirk. Was he mad provoking Lord Bryan's men? She tried not to stare but needed to know when to react. Garth moved his feet nervously, sensing the distress
Eloise was sending, to flee. Roland's expression seemed to soften, mayhap it wasn't a smirk after all, or mayhap she was wishing so hard that she tricked herself.
“The bird isn’t from New Pembrokeshire, Sir,” Roland said, dipping his head graciously. “But I would be lying if I said we brought it from Connacht.”
“Oh, hang the bird,” said one of the knights. “I’d like another chance at dice. You walked off with a pocket full of my hard-earned coins.”
“Not me,” Roland countered.
“Eh? Skinned him alive, I did. Want a chance to lose some more?” one of the other knights piped up.
“Play each other,” Eloise blurted. “Obviously you don’t need Lord Roland.” Relieved to have the tempest regards the heron over, she was anxious to get out of New Pembrokeshire.
The men laughed again.
“I’ve lucky dice with me,” the knight said, shaking his hand as if holding the dice.
“Let’s play,” urged the friendly one.
“Getting too dark. Come let’s retire to the castle, Roland, El?” said the first knight, swinging his arm in grand invitation.
“Good sirs,” Roland said, chuckling, rubbing his bristly cheek, “I can’t afford to stay, dice isn’t my game. It was Sedric who had the luck. With your will, on the way back, mayhap? Tonight, we must press on.”
Nervously, Eloise cued Garth forward, as if following Roland’s command.
“Good evening to you,” Roland said, following her.
“I think lost love tugs at your heart. Leave someone behind in Leinster?” the knight with the friendly voice asked.
“Too many to count,” Roland called back to raucous laughter.
“Or is it an angry man you flee?”
“Or woman?” one of knights shouted to them. “Maybe Connacht was too much to his liking.”
Eloise could hear kissing noises: smooching, slurping and slapping noises, making her cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“Don’t look back,” Roland said to Eloise.
“And turn to salt? Let’s ride,” she answered. Every stride Garth executed took her farther away from Lord Bryan’s clutches and closer to High Lord FitzGilbert, if that were indeed safer. She massaged her face feeling fear, fatigue and filth. Her heart still pounded from sidestepping disaster yet ached to know if Roland had a lady love waiting for him in Leinster. “Any of that true, back there?” she finally asked.