by Anne Beggs
“We need to keep moving, El,” Roland reminded her. “Pingbee and Alred can wait here.”
“Boil some water, plantain, I’ll stitch it up. Then we’ll be on our way,” she said, confused by her own words.
Pingbee was staring at her. What now, she wondered, turning her attention back to Alred.
Alred tilted dangerously towards her and she cued Garth to side pass next to Alred’s gelding.
“Help!” she shrieked as Alred collapsed against her. “Side, side, side” she barked at Garth, desperate to keep him pressed against Alred’s gelding. Pushing against Alred’s weight, with the sharp, pounding pain in her ankle, Eloise was unable to give leg or rein cues to Garth. She and Alred were going to fall. She couldn’t bear the pain of falling again.
“Alred!” Pingbee growled.
Eloise sank back, planting her butt as if no saddle existed, taking root in Garth’s back. Eloise and Garth were one, free of the squire.
“Up,” Pingbee grunted.
Eloise realized Pingbee had pulled Alred back and attempted to steady his squire. Gratefully she stroked Garth’s stout neck.
“Let’s find a quiet place off this busy road,” Roland said, bringing her attention back to the heavy traffic.
“Take my excuse, you!” Roland hailed to a passing farmer, driving five cows and steers. “Is there a stream or perhaps a glade for our horses to drink and graze?” he asked. “Out of the way of all the travelers?”
Though the farmer kept his eyes down, he tried to study the group.
“Closest is back the way you came, just a way,” the farmer pointed. “There’s plenty of water ahead, but not so much grazing.”
“I remember,” Pingbee said.
Eloise nodded at the farmer.
“May you have goodness,” Roland said to the retreating farmer, nodding at Eloise in acknowledgement as they circled back.
Roland helped Eloise down from the saddle.
Pingbee barked at Alred to collect firewood, but the squire tumbled out of the saddle. Shaking his head, Pingbee looked to Roland, “Give us a hand.”
Roland and Pingbee each took an arm and helped Alred to the base of a sapling yew, while Eloise retrieved the skin bag with water for Alred.
“We’ll attend the fire,” Roland said, taking Eloise by the elbow, tossing the skin bag to Pingbee. “You see to the horses.”
Though Roland held her elbow, supporting her as best he could, she would not walk. Her injured ankle gripped her with stabbing then throbbing pain.
“Inhale,” Roland said, inhaling as an example. “Now blow.” He exhaled. “Master your pain.”
“Wish we had another grouse, or a pheasant to roast,” Pingbee muttered, as he took all four horses to the water.
After a few deep breaths, Eloise was not closer to taking another painful step. She could picture the firewood they needed, the plantain, web. So much more was necessary.
“Nothing to be done for it,” Roland said. I’ll carry you, as you’re spurless,” he added, turning his back to her then kneeling down. “Climb on.”
What a silly solution, Eloise thought as she reached for his shoulders. When was the last time she was carried thus? Childs play to be sure. She hopped off her right, unbroken side, wrapping both legs around Roland’s waist. Roland hooked his arms under her knees, his arms squeezing her thighs tight to him, lifting her as he stood. She gasped and clutched her arms round his neck as she was propelled skyward. With her arms wrapped around Roland’s chest, it felt like an embrace. Eyes closed, she let her cheek rest against his wavy hair, not quite cheek-to-cheek as she desired.
“Before Christ, man,” Pingbee said. “You have crippled both our servants and reduced us to beasts of burden.”
Roland kept walking, ignoring Pingbee’s complaint.
“After you kill him,” she muttered, her mouth so near his ear, “surely my father will go to Hell and dispatch him again.”
“Your family visit Hell often?” Roland asked, squeezing her legs closer round him. Four layers of linen tunic, padded gambeson, hauberk and wool surcoat didn’t detract from the sensation of her spread legs upon his back. Her linen chemise and surcoat felt thin and insignificant, and she clung tighter.
“What?” Eloise asked, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain while we collect some dry wood,” he said, sounding sarcastic, as he loosened his grip on her legs, easing her down to the ground, ending the embrace. Eloise sighed with regret, then groaned with discomfort.
Roland savored the sensation of Eloise sliding down his back, regretting she wasn’t before him. Impossible, here and now. Wood, vegetation, then FitzGilbert’s castle, he reminded himself.
“You just said your father would go to Hell and kill Pingbee,” he continued, stooping to gather some small branches, twigs really, left from previous pilferers. “Your Uncle Reggie told me if I let anything happen to you, he’d haunt me from the gates of Hell.” The familiar cold shiver ran down his back as he said it. “Did you feel that?” he asked her. “Damn! I hate it,” he complained, crossing himself, brushing his hair down.
“Feel what?” she asked.
“Your Uncle sends his greetings,” he said, believing indeed she didn’t feel the chill, nor was her hair standing out.
“What are you talking about, you make little sense?” Eloise said. “And my family is not in the habit of visiting Hell.”
“Just checking,” Roland said with mock relief. He had heard the rumours about heresy. Eloise certainly had a strange way with animals, the wolves, orange cat and a most unnatural connection with that horse. Thoughts of a succubus nagged at his mind. He had only to stare deep within her innocent, wide eyes. Yet…how could she be an animal demon in the form of a beautiful woman? Not a very good one anyway, he considered, as he looked at her disheveled, broken appearance. He smiled, shook his head he put those futile thoughts away.
“When did Uncle Reggie say that?” she asked, taking a deep, tearful breath.
Roland guessed from the tone in her voice she felt like hearing from Reginald. He placed the twigs in her arms before continuing the scavenging and story.
“Eloise, while you were braiding your hair or binding up,” he said, moving his hand briskly, “Sir Reginald came to me, with the strength of ten men with all their hands.”
She nodded and he continued.
“He grabbed me by the throat,” Roland imitated a man choking-bulging eyes, tongue out, “put his face nose-to-nose with mine. He had the most grotesque, terrifying expression, a gargoyle from Hell to be sure,” and Roland tried to scrunch his face as miserably as possible.
Eloise smiled, then winced and her fingers went to the laceration on her lips.
“If you let any harm come to her, I will haunt you from the very gates of Hell!” Roland said trying to capture the deep rumble of Reggie’s voice, shaking a clenched fist as if Reginald still held his throat. Again, the icy chill ran down Roland’s spine, making his hair stand out. “There it is again, didn’t you feel that cold breeze, look at my hair.”
Eloise did look. Lifting her hand towards his hair, stopping before she touched him. She wanted to reach up and stroke it down, longed to run her fingers through those thick, dark locks, and massage his scalp with her fingertips. A few twigs dropped from her other arm.
Feeling the embarrassment of their closeness while face-to-face, she ducked her eyes and bent to gather plantain. And once again, she regretted disengaging. Why do I do that, she asked herself? She didn’t have an answer. At seventeen, there weren’t answers, it seemed. Arms full of wood, Roland strode back to Pingbee and Alred. This was wrong, she told herself. People were dying at home while she admired a man’s hair. She sighed with the guilt.
“Am I to start a fire as well?” she heard Pingbee wail. “You go too far, Lord of Abuse.”
She bent, plenty of plantain within easy reach.
“Enough plantain?” he asked upon his return. She had quite a handful of sword-
shaped leaves.
“And spider web,” Eloise reminded Roland.
He grimaced.
She tried to smile. Guilt forgotten; she was back in the present with Roland.
He exaggerated the expression, his mouth contorting, his eyes crossing.
She snorted, hurting her lips, but it touched her that he would make her laugh despite the ceaseless anxiety enshrouding them both. It was hard to remember in this moment they had been mad at each other.
“Shush.” He put a finger to his lips to quiet her, then touched his finger to her lips.
Eloise balanced, immobile, his gloved finger pressed to her lips, silencing her, as she tried to decipher the message in his eyes. For once, he didn’t turn away but held her gaze.
“What goes on here?”
Roland spun to face Pingbee.
With a look bordering on rage Pingbee pulled Roland by the arm and seethed. “Who is that really?” he growled, pointing at Eloise in a low, menacing voice not heard since before lunch.
Roland stared at Pingbee, also noting the change of mood.
“All will be answered when I’ve delivered the page to High Lord FitzGilbert,” Roland replied.
“I will not wait,” Pingbee growled. “Tell me now what that is, lest I believe you to be lewd and unholy sodomites,” he said with stern conviction.
Roland stared at him in confusion. It was an earful to decipher. He understood the words but couldn’t find the context. That? She wasn’t a that.
“Well?” Pingbee almost shouted at him. “What’s it between you?”
Roland stared from Pingbee to Eloise.
“That’s what I mean,” scowled Pingbee, his face pinched with disgust. “What’s between you cock suckers? Tell me, or I’ll slay you both here and now in the name of all that’s holy.”
Roland looked up from Eloise to Pingbee; Pingbee nudged his head in the direction of Eloise and back toward Roland. Roland looked back and forth between Eloise and Pingbee. So much at stake, every minute passing, to be held up by such foolishness.
Roland threw his head back, laughing at the absurdity of it all. He bent forward again and slapped both hands on his thighs. Pingbee and Eloise stared in disbelief, for there was nothing funny in any of this.
“What happened? Lord Roland are you all right?” she sounded concerned. “Sir Pingbee, what happened? Maladies rising in Leinster?”
“What the fuck are you?” Pingbee snarled to her.
“What?” she asked.
Furious, Pingbee drew his sword.
Roland stepped in front of Eloise, trying to regain his composure. The plantain leaves dropped to the ground. Tears of laughter collected at the edges of his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his left hand. He took a few deep breaths and tried to look at Pingbee. The wide-eyed look on Pingbee’s face started him laughing again. Such a fretful, irritable man.
“Not the fitting demise of legend or story, such an ignoble death, mistaken as male lovers after all we’ve endured. Five impossible days. Shame upon me,” he gasped. “Just a moment, I promise, slay us not!” and he started laughing again, until his emotional release ebbed.
None spoke, waiting on Roland.
With lightning reflexes Roland drew El Muerte Rojo and laughter ceased.
“Sir Pingbee, forgive me,” Roland dipped his head, without taking his eyes off Pingbee. “My Maiden, I fear we’re discovered, I can’t keep your secret any longer,” he said, stepping back. He extended his left fist.
Eloise couldn’t believe her ears. Roland gave her a curt nod, toward his extended fist. There was nothing to do now but follow his lead. Eloise did as she was told, though every fiber of her body said do not. She placed her hand upon his.
“Maiden Eloise,” Roland paused, as if searching, “the Maid Eloise Aine Echna of Dahlquin, daughter of the Lord Hubert of Dahlquin, Faithful Marcher Lord to High Lord FitzGilbert, Lord Hubert De Burgh and King Henry, and his Lady Aine of Dahlquin, daughter of the U’Brien’s and our own Viking Slayer, Brian Boru,” again Roland paused, glancing at the toes of Eloise’s boots, then up her legs, her girdle, to Cara slung over her shoulder before resuming his introduction, “niece of the late Sir Reginald of Dahlquin, and neighbor and ally of Ashbury, Ireland, England and God, may I present to you Sir Pingbee of Wexford.”
Eloise had imagined a reunion with Pingbee, with just such a formal introduction. In these imaginings her status was restored, she was wearing a surcoat in blue and gold, with the might of Dahlquin behind her. Wrath and hatred set aside for the moment, she swallowed her pride and attempted to curtsy with as much grace and elegance as she could muster on one leg and in such shock.
“Sir Pingbee, of Wexford,” Roland continued, “I present you the Maid Eloise Aine Echna of Dahlquin. We travel in disguise, Sir, and again I apologize for the deception, but it’s mandatory.”
After a long, thoughtful pause, Pingbee appearing suitably impressed bowed, almost touching his forehead to his knees. He took Eloise's right hand and lightly touched his forehead to the back of her hand, saying “Acute surprise is upon me, my Maiden, but equal honor as well.”
Eloise nodded, unable to think of an appropriate thing to say to this troublesome knight before her. She withdrew her hand slowly, as her mother would have.
“Let’s build a fire, and I’ll explain,” Roland said.
“Maiden?” Roland said, dropping to a knee, indicating she hop on his back again. Eloise accepted, but found the comfort diminished with Pingbee in attendance.
“Young Alred,” Roland said, rousing the squire. Eloise watched Alred lift his bloody head, squinting eyes glaring up at them. “Awake and meet your Angel of Mercy.”
Again, Eloise slid down Roland’s back, to have both Roland and Pingbee take her elbows, steadying her.
“Maid Eloise Aine Echna of Dahlquin,” Roland started continuing with her long familial title, “this is Squire Alred, of Meath and Connacht, did I hear, and this is all I know of the youth?” After a moment of silence, Roland continued. “Squire Alred, Maid Eloise is a healer of some renown, and by a miraculous twist of fortune, she desires to tend to your well-deserved wound.”
“Shut up and cooperate,” Pingbee admonished his squire.
In bits and pieces Roland explained the whole story to Pingbee as they built the fire, added rocks, and dug a small pit that Eloise could use to boil water, emphasizing in great details their urgency, while Eloise tended to Alred. It was quite a good tale, beyond belief, Pingbee said on several occasions, but maybe it was so implausible as to be true after all. Who could fabricate such a tale?
Eloise studied Alred’s wound. What was she thinking, to take on such a wound without her mother’s guidance? Eloise was a healer-in-training. Her mother was a renowned healer or conjurer, depending on your source. Eloise suffered the same accusations. Exalted as a saintly healer and server of God or lambasted as the spawn of Satan with unnatural powers over life and death: a realm better left to God. Even male physicians were at risk if their patients were jealous or unhappy. As much as Eloise studied, she couldn’t remember everything, and without her knowledgeable mother to guide her, Eloise usually fell back on the two things that stuck with her: whiskey or boil it. They had not a drop of whiskey, and unless she knew absolutely that it must be used fresh, when in doubt, render it down by boiling.
Eloise was flustered by the events of the day and Pingbee’s inclusion in the secret to her true identity and their mission. Her body hurt, her mind raced, and her ankle throbbed. With the back of her hand she wiped away a tear and left another smear of road grime and ash. Mathair, she called in her heart, Mathair. Concentrating on healing brought her close to her mother in spirit. Eloise closed her eyes and tried to hear her mother’s soothing, confident voice. Healers are chosen, you can’t turn away, her mother told her. Compassion is stronger than hatred. It sets us above the animals. Eloise longed for her own mother to comfort and heal her wounds. Mayhap her mother needed healing… her mother persever
ed; Eloise must believe this. We can do this; her mother would say. Help me, Mathair, Eloise called in her heart, by your will, help me. Lifting her hands, she set to work.
With vision from one eye, Eloise snorted and started. Alred moaned and grunted, but sat still, never grabbing her hand or pushing her away.
Yet again, Eloise found she recalled the procedures and medicinals by singing the familiar chants and melodies. Words in verse came readily. How was it she could remember a lesson set to music so easily? Weren’t histories set to music for the illiterate? Singing to the sick and ailing was soothing for the healer as well as the patient, entwining prayers and blessings to encourage recovery.
“Flesh can tear, and burn and peel,
It blisters, festers and all manner of color be,
For you dear doctor, use all your senses and feel”
Well, these didn’t apply, so she quickly sang through until she came to the verse about stitching a tender wound.
“Attends to the wound with bone needle well rounded,
Close and tight the stitches must singly fall,
To tamper with God’s own creation the surgeon is bound,
Greater mending and miniscule scaring are the hope for all “
Alred proved a braver patient than the bullying, hated coward of hours before.
“El, time is wasting,” Roland barked at her. “The wood burns down.”
Carefully she lined a hole with Tuath's leather cooking pouch. Hot rocks from the fire pit were added to the water-filled leather basin. With more prayers, she dipped the tail hair from Alred’s own horse into the boiling liquid, softening it. Despite their earlier differences, Alred was a cooperative patient. His temperament had benefitted from the bloodletting.
“These small, neat stitches are necessary for better healing,” she explained. It was a challenge to make the delicate stitches, not pulling so hard as to break the tail hair. Her ankle bit at her, her left side was swollen and both hands seemed unwilling to do the detailed work. Memories of her mother’s counsel guided her. “It’s not magic nor mystery here. This medicine kit belonged to a squire, like you,” Eloise told Alred.