Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Eloise was drifting off, but after a few moments she felt disquiet. She forced her weary eye open to find Roland’s stern gaze upon her.

  “I’m wondering. Mayhap…it would be best, if we boarded you here,” he said.

  Eloise had to force her mind to process the words, as if translating a foreign language.

  “I will not be left behind,” she said, indignant, feeling betrayed.

  “You can’t walk, you can barely ride. I’ll be back in a few days-”

  “I will not.” She tried to shake her head. “You won’t find me here.” What was he proposing? To leave her here? Helpless? Did he find her a burden?

  “A chamber with the apothecary or the constable. I’ve a dagger to leave as collateral or payment,” he continued, ignoring her protests, not even looking at her as he calculated. “Your shield,” he hesitated, brow knit.

  “You need your dagger, and I must keep Reggie’s shield.” Roland was mad with fatigue to suggest such.

  “Garth?”

  “Garth? Never!” she growled, her heart racing as she turned to watch her beautiful horse grazing with Artoch. “He would be stolen faster than-”

  Eloise stopped, not finishing her sentence, for Roland was saying the same thing. He also stopped talking, his expression softening when their eyes met. Eloise remained silent, waiting, wondering how he would complete the sentence. His gaze never wavered. His brown eyes seemed to enter her, touching her very soul. Then he fell back, looking away, distressed.

  “Roland?” she asked.

  Roland shook his head then reached for the last pastie. “One left.” He broke it in half before she could decline, holding one half towards her.

  “You eat it, with your will, Lord,” she said, watching.

  Seeing Roland eat both, she cradled the orange cat, wondering what had happened. What had he seen in her eyes, well one eye?

  Eloise was asleep, one of the blankets wrapped around her and the cat.

  Roland laid out the oil skin canopy the inn keeper offered them in the way of bedding. It was better than lying on their damp saddle blankets as they had done the night before. God's blood, that had been miserable, and tonight wasn’t looking any better. Succubus indeed. “Huh,” he huffed. Despite her injuries, she was desirable. Why? Was she unattainable? Her injured ankle and face surely added to her forbidden status. Like some maiden of legend. A Princess. “Bah,” he muttered, unable to deny what he saw in her eyes, well her right eye. It must be befuddlement of the mind. Exhaustion. The Maid of Dahlquin.

  In her nightmare Eloise was lost. Garth was lost. Rather, he was back at Dahlquin, dying. Everyone was dying, and she couldn't get there without Garth. How had she become disengorged? Outcast. She had the dog-chewed ledger and armed with that, she must find her way back to Dahlquin to her dying family. When she opened the ledger, the pages were corrupted, wolf blood saturated the pages, and others were singed, where she had left it too close to the hearth. Useless. She wandered through brambles avoiding the roads for they were dangerous. She heard a whinny. Garth. She fought her way to him, calling, whistling. He was running to her yet did not progress. He was in a bog with only his body showing. When she finally got to him, she realized that he was well and healed, but his legs were gone, only stumps with cloven hooves. He was glad of her presence, she knew, but he was useless, helpless, and completely unaware as he tried to nuzzle her. Mathair, mathair, what is happening. Mathair, by your will, help me, I need you. Her mouth was full of blood. And her nose. Guilt of the Huntress, for she had killed. She was choking, unable to breathe. Eloise realized that her legs were gone too, she was a stump herself. Uncle Reggie saved her. But she neglected to save him. He lost his hand and now she must sacrifice her limbs. Yet her legs hurt so, legs not there were aching and tormenting, as if they were roots being crushed by the firmament. And she couldn’t breathe. Useless. “Mathair,” she called, the blood pouring from her mouth and nose. “Mathair,” she tried to scream, her arms grabbing for her mother.

  “El.”

  That wasn’t her mother, but Eloise clung to the hope of the familiar voice, feeling hands clutch her. Da? Uncle Reggie? She still couldn’t breathe, she was suffocating.

  “El, wake up.”

  Wake up.

  “I have you. El, by your will open your eyes! Breathe! Eloise!”

  She was pitched forward; her face felt heavy as a stone, and someone was pounding between her shoulder blades.

  “Breathe!”

  Much later Eloise sat in the darkness of the stable. She was unable to breathe if she lay down too long, so Roland overturned a manger and propped her against it, but she remained awake, unable to sleep after her nightmare. Pain and exhaustion took a toll on her body, but her mind wouldn’t rest. Garth and Artoch took turns lying and standing, shuffling in the confined barn with the other stalled horses. Cats and owls gave them little grief.

  Roland lay next to her and she could easily take his head in her lap were it not for the big orange cat already there. She was glad for Roland’s sleep. He needed the rest.

  Why did he pull back when he looked into her eyes? Fear, disgust? He was distressed by what he saw. That she was a freak, an anomaly.

  Yet he saved her life, numerous times. She felt such failure. Strength upon him, smart and capable. Of course, he would have many lady loves.

  She had almost kissed him in the farmyard, wanted to kiss him, even now. She imagined how it might feel to hold him, be held by him. Not in fear and anguish, as after the marauders. But to simply hold his hand or stroke his thick, wavy locks, she thought, sighing. Although she could barely make out his form in the darkness, she could visualize his hair; imagine combing out the tangles, liberating the black locks to wind luxuriously around her fingers. Not only to touch his glorious mane, but to massage the strife and tension away from his scalp, the way her mother taught her. That she could do. Even without benefit of lavender or rose petals, without ale or whiskey to loosen the strain. Her hand hovered above his head. Desire, need and…she dare not. Yet her hand remained, poised, his mussed hairs tickling her palm and fingertips.

  MEATH, 13th of June

  Faster than scared rabbits did those Dahlquin cowards run, Seamus thought. He, Broccan, Donal, Ercc and Maiu rode hard all day, yet they were not closer to catching their quarry. One horse was lame under the grueling pace. The others were exhausted and looked to collapse soon. Should have brought more horses, he thought, and funds for supplies. Only he, his four men or some act of fate could prevent the messengers from delivering word of the siege to High Lord Gerald FitzGilbert.

  Tiomoid U’Neill would prefer to issue the challenge to FitzGilbert himself, with the might of the vanquished Connacht kingdoms behind him. This warning was premature and must be thwarted. As the pursuers fell farther and farther behind, they all prayed mightily for an act of God or Satan to suspend their prey.

  Seamus and his men rode into the small, unwalled village. Seamus surveyed the rustic dwellings and shops, thinking it was but a muddy, rural byway off the main route to Leinster. He saw a man sweeping the mud before his door and wondered at the stupidity of such a futile effort, as everywhere a man could presume to set foot was more mud.

  “You there,” Broccan called, and the sweeping man looked up, smiling, narrow eyes, child-like in their open expression. “Fucking simpleton,” Broccan muttered to Seamus.

  And so he was. Seamus could tell by the eyes, and the stoop of shoulder. Still the man smiled amiably, simply.

  “We need fresh horses,” Seamus said. It should have been obvious, as all five horses were covered in sweat, their weary heads bent low. Broccan’s horse had lost a shoe, the poor beast. The simple man tipped his head as if sympathising with the exhausted horses. “Is there a horse trader or farrier?” Seamus asked.

  “Your master!” Broccan shouted. “Fetch him to us.”

  The simple man blinked, stared between Seamus and Broccan. Movement caught Seamus’ attention and he noticed a man with a
pitchfork, another with a long towel in his hands. Before he could address these men he heard a child’s voice.

  “Mathair, there is men outside.”

  Seamus heard several children’s voices inside before the door opened. At the same time a man came briskly around the corner of the building.

  “Shame upon me, the delay,” the man said, “may I help you?”

  The door opened and a woman spoke to the simpleton. “Very good, Callum, just wait quietly.”

  “How may I help you good sirs?” the man asked again.

  The men with pitchfork and towel remained, watching.

  “We’re in need of fresh horses. Is there a trader or farrier to be found?” Seamus asked.

  The man studied them a moment before answering. “Five horses,” he murmured. “Not here, but in the next town, not far. Not far at all. The smith will know more, see the smoke?” The man pointed; Seamus followed his direction and saw a black line of smoke.

  “Did any of you see a knight on a black horse and a boy on a grey pass this way?” Seamus asked.

  Seamus looked at all the faces assembling around him and his men, but all the people shook their heads. He didn’t think so either, the prints didn’t come this way. But he and his men needed new mounts. How was it the black and grey rode day and night, seeming to put more distance between them?

  Down the path the smith told them the same thing, not a horse in this small village.

  “If you go down the route, follow the big road and keep left, you’ll come to Saint Brigid’s, a town, it is. Two horse traders at least, more come market day. And farriers.”

  “Left,” Seamus muttered. He didn’t wish to veer so far off course from his prey. “Did you mayhap see two riders pass this way? Knight on a black horse and a boy on a grey?”

  “I did not, sirs,” the smith said. “But I’ll draw some water for your horses.”

  “I can’t afford to pay you,” Seamus said.

  “Sorrow upon me,” the smith said with mild disappointment. “But the poor beasts,” he paused, “say a favorable word about me in Saint Brigid’s.” He brought two full buckets and refilled them as the horses sated themselves.

  There were two horse traders, with a bounty of horses available for prices higher than what Seamus and Broccan had between them. They could trade straight across, but for what appeared to be lesser quality horses. It didn’t matter, they needed fresh mounts. In the end they traded two for two with each trader, but one horse, the finest of the lot, was in want of shoes which they also couldn't afford. They bartered a dagger and had the shoes removed, with some additional coins in the bargain.

  Waiting for the farrier, the five men sat outside a tavern, sharing a watered-down tankard of ale between them.

  They asked anyone passing by about the elusive knight and the boy.

  A stout man roughly dressed approached. Seamus and Broccan exchanged brief looks.

  The man’s hair was dirty and matted, and when he opened his mouth to speak, Seamus saw what teeth he had left were dingy stumps.

  “May I sit?” the man asked with a coarse manner of speech. While waiting for an answer, his hard gaze moved between Seamus and Broccan.

  Seamus nodded and the man turned, seemed to snarl, and a youth cowered, relinquishing his stool. The man grabbed it and sat without another word, still studying Seamus, Broccan, Donal, Ercc and Maiu.

  “I’ve seen them,” the man said, “the ones you want.”

  Seamus sat up, eager to hear more.

  “And who would that be?” Broccan asked in a challenging tone.

  “More importantly, who would you be?” Seamus asked, following Broccan's cautious manner.

  The man smirked, but lowered his eyes, probably in an attempt to show some modicum of respect.

  “I’m Torcan,” he dipped his head briefly. “I too want the man and boy.”

  Torcan, the wild boar, Seamus thought. Fitting name, had his parents recognised such as a swaddling? The man had hard lined grey eyes that never seemed to blink. His expression hovered between a smirk and a glower.

  “What claim do you have on them?” Broccan asked, amusing Seamus with his ability to mimic the man's cruel expression. They were two of a kind, he thought: coarse, dangerous and invaluable when the killing began.

  “I maybe ask you the same,” Torcan said, glancing at each of the men. “You’re strangers here. Well-armed strangers. But you’re chasing two murderers.”

  Seamus inhaled. This was interesting to hear. Broccan sat back, crossing his arms.

  “Murder?” Broccan murmured. “They slaughtered a band of marauders. We saw the evidence of that. What, ten men? Was that the tally?” he asked Seamus and the other men.

  “Eight men. Some say unbelievable,” Maiu added, speaking for the first time.

  “Murder,” Torcan sneered, cocking his head, turning his gaze to Seamus, then Broccan. “Isn't that how you describe it?”

  That was exactly how he described it in his effort to win support and run these two messengers - murderers - down. He and Broccan had recruited three additional men from U’Neill’s forces at Ashbury. They were poor horsemen, armed but reliable poachers and capable fighters.

  “What is your interest in all this?” Seamus asked.

  “To steal our glory when we bring these traitors to justice?” Broccan said. “Eh, boys?” he asked the group, before turning his scrutinising gaze back on Torcan.

  “Traitors, is it? And murderers. Next you’ll be claiming to do God's work,” Torcan said, again smirking.

  “We are!” Broccan boomed with a wry smile. “God's work, keeping those foul bastards from Leinster.”

  “What do you want, Torcan?” Seamus asked, recognising this man was different from the other men, who were easily recruited, eager to align with a new power source with the promise of reward.

  “I think we can help each other,” Torcan said.

  “Help each other how?” Seamus asked, intrigued.

  “First, I want to know who you are, who you serve, and why it’s five of you chasing these two? Second,” Torcan paused to glance from Seamus to Broccan, his grey eyes gleaming as he appeared to take the measure of each of them, “I want the boy.”

  PART THREE

  VILLAGE, 13th of JUNE

  Noise from the dawning village startled Eloise awake. Unfamiliar voices shouted and cursed. Stools were banged, she heard scraping, as if something was being dragged across a stone floor. These were not the familiar sounds she stirred to every day and the strangeness unsettled her. The pain in her ankle pounded and her cheek throbbed. The unfamiliar voices brought an ache to her heart. Then she heard purring. The orange cat sitting on the overturned manger rubbed against her head.

  “Bleeding fuck,” Roland muttered, rubbing his face then scratching his scalp before glancing at Eloise. “Beg your pardon.” He tried to rotate his head and shoulders. “My neck,” he moaned, rubbing it with his hand. “Could have used your cat for a pillow,” he added, stretching and sighing. “It’s still raining.”

  Bleeding hmm indeed, she agreed. Eloise could barely move with the pain and stiffness. She held her two hands before her in the dim stable light. The fingers on her left hand were like sausages compared with the right hand. She pushed her sleeve up examining her wrist and arm, swollen as if by a hundred bee stings. Her left leg and knee were swollen to her boot top and she wondered if she could bend her knee. Her left side was hard and stiff from the beating she suffered under the club of the marauder.

  “And, nothing like the reek of horse piss in the morning,” he lamented, “but I suppose you can’t smell that?”

  The single door leading to the inn opened. At the other end the workers opened the double doors, revealing the downpour.

  “Oh, I say,” a man uttered, surprise on his face as he shook the water off his oil skin. “Well, guards.” He nodded as he continued for his horse and gear.

  “Guards?” Roland muttered, looking about.

  �
��Quite the service,” the man said. “I must remember to thank the inn keeper. And you, sir,” he added nodding to Roland.

  Two other merchants entered. They too were wet.

  “Have you ever?” the first man asked, “armed guards for our mounts and gear. Most impressive. I shall return to this inn next market day.”

  “Eh?” one of the men questioned, looking from Roland to Eloise and back at the first man. “The Dragon Slayer, is it?”

  “So I’m called” Roland acknowledged, remembering his moniker from the day before. “And a rough night’s labor it was. Look at my apprentice.” He pointed at Eloise and she shrank back from the attention, for surely she appeared a swollen toad.

  “Rough work, but the lad was poorly last night,” one of the merchants added.

  “Fought the bandits as if they were dragons. Poor lad, I hardly recognise him myself,” Roland glanced at her and winked.

  “Good morrow to you all,” Roland said with a hint of a nod. “And is there any food left this fine morning?”

  “I’m not sure, if the inn keeper hasn’t brought your due, I’d hurry,” the first man said as he rubbed down his horse.

  “So I will. If you’ll excuse me, sirs, El,” he said to all. “I shall extract some meagre fee from our gracious inn keeper for our services.”

  “Take a cape,” one of the men called.

  “Dragon’s ate it.”

  Eloise pulled herself up and limped to Garth, who was foraging upon the barn floor. She was aware of the merchants tacking up their mounts, and she wondered how in God’s mercy she would be able to lift a saddle over Garth’s back.

  As the merchants exited with their mounts, Roland returned to the barn with some stale bread, dry cheese and wine to break fast.

  “Saint Alexis be praised, may you have goodness for helping us poor beggars,” Eloise said, forcing her split lips to form the words with dignity.

  “Beggars?” Roland questioned, dropping his shoulders and hanging his head for a moment. “Even as a humble page,” he said taking a deep breath, “I never existed at such a level of poverty. Poaching, tavern entertainment, now begging,” he said, shaking his drooping head.