Archer's Grace

by Anne Beggs

  Stitches complete, she placed the poultice of plantain and spider web upon the stitches, still attempting to sing:

  “Fresh and green, that’s a start

  Mash it to pulp, and pray from your heart

  Gently the poultice upon the wound lay

  When the good is done, take it away”

  To bind his head, she sliced away half of his tunic.

  “It’s all we have,” she offered, unhappy with the result, but lacking any proper bindings. “Is this too tight?” she asked, lightly caressing Alred’s exposed cheek.

  “Well, how is the boy?” Pingbee asked with concern.

  Eloise took in a breath, “He needs to rest, you will have to stay here a day or two,” she said.

  “We ride with you to FitzGilbert. Won't you be staying to help me with him?” Pingbee asked.

  “You know we can’t stay,” she said. “I’ll tell you what to do.” Too much time had already been expended here.

  “We ride with you, we have an argument to settle,” said Pingbee

  “If you want him to recover, so Val can kill him,” she added, “he’ll need to rest at least a day or two, certainly until the fever is gone and then only if his ear doesn’t bleed.” His head was bound up like a grey sphere, with a puffy face protruding. “Didn’t you hear a thing Lord Roland said? Dahlquin is under siege, we’re at war, and you-” she left it unfinished.

  “Bloody Hell!” Pingbee exclaimed.

  “Sir,” Roland interjected, “Dahlquin and Ashbury need good men such as yourself and the squire. Rest here,” Roland suggested, “FitzGilbert’s men and I will pass this way on our return to Dahlquin and Ashbury. After each is secured, or before, if you wish, we’ll settle the breach between us,” Roland said.

  “Surely you received such training as a squire,” Eloise asked, when Pingbee feigned ignorance to tending wounds, “survival skills in the field, sir.”

  Eloise went over some basic medical instructions with Pingbee. She showed him how to brew willow bark tea and attempted to show him how to change the bandage if the sutures ruptured and started bleeding again. Pingbee assured her it wouldn’t be necessary. Eloise knew from the pale look on Pingbee’s face, he couldn’t do it. Unbelievable, she thought, up to his knees in gore and he’s happy, show him a clean wound and he vomits.

  “At least smell for malady,” she suggested.

  “I smell rain,” he answered, looking up mournfully.

  Eloise glanced up at the clouding sky. The long overdue summer rain had arrived.

  “Alred, did you hear any of my instructions?” He’d have to take care of himself, Sir “Puke-up” would be of little help.

  Alred roused, slowly opening his eyes, looking up at her. Eloise had her right side to him, close to his dry lips for his own voice was weak. “Alred?” she asked. “Alred, if you can’t speak, shake your arm or leg for me. Alred?” she pressed.

  He extended a hand, his gloved fingers tentatively touching her unswollen cheek. “Are you an angel?” he asked.

  “I’m not an angel,” Eloise said softly.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Here by the stream, don’t you remember?” she asked.

  Stream?” he said, as if trying to think. Eloise could barely hear him. She leaned over to fetch the skin bag.

  “Alred,” she called softly. “Al-red,” she sang, her voice rising and falling in a soothing, though nasal manner, “time to drink.” His fingers flinched, and she placed the skin bag in his hands, pressing his fingers around it. “Open up, drink this.”

  Roland tugged at her shoulder to hurry, so she helped Alred lift the skin bag to his lips and drink.

  “You are not-” Alred started. “Where is-” again he halted, obviously confused. “Who are you?” Alred asked, lowering the skin bag.

  “Ellie,” Roland called.

  Eloise stared up. Ellie, had he ever called her by her familiar name? His voice was soft, but his extended hand shook impatiently at her. She took his offered hand.

  Roland boosted her up into the saddle. She winced with the pain in her ankle and the tears started. Sir Pingbee came over to bid them farewell. She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand.

  Roland stood with Reggie’s shield in his hands. Saints preserve her, how could she have forgotten that? “It would be an honor,” Roland said, “I have-” he didn’t finish, but waited for her reply.

  “I would have honor as well,” she said, relief overwhelming any betrayal she might have felt. “By your gracious will and may blessing and goodness be upon you.”

  Roland slipped the shield on his arm.

  “It’s been an extraordinary delight to finally meet the young Maid of Dahlquin,” Pingbee said. “Pleasure upon me to meet you again someday. Until then, I will give your greetings to your father,” and he extended his hand to her courteously.

  “It was extraordinary,” she said sarcastically, taking his offered hand with equal courtesy. “However, it’s unlikely I’ll ever see you again,” and she returned his hand to him. “Lord Roland will kill you, and my father will go to Hell and kill you anew,” she said with a smile. “Until then, God be with you.” She had not forgotten his earlier accusations. Bastard indeed. And rain coming.

  Garth’s head turned. Alred’s gelding whinnied.

  “Shit,” Pingbee sighed contemplatively, rubbing his chin. He returned to Alred and kicked his foot. “Stupid, fucking thing to do.”

  Alred groaned and pulled his feet in, close to his body.

  Roland reined his horse around, Eloise turned Garth and they headed to the road.

  “Cheer up,” Roland shouted, looking over his shoulder, intending to bolster Pingbee with the prospect of something exciting to do. “We’re being followed by U’Neill’s men.”

  “Eh? How many?” Pingbee asked with mock amusement, raising his fists before his face, ready for a fight, something between a scowl and a grin on his face. “Alred will make a stand, eh?” he said kicking Alred’s foot again.

  “Who knows,” Roland answered, “cover our-” His voice faded, “backs,” he said flatly.

  Eloise turned, scanning behind them. Not a black raincloud. But just as unmistakable. The speed, the urgency.

  “Riders!” she called. But she couldn’t hear her own words.

  “Tiomu’s men,” Roland barked. Artoch pawed the ground.

  “Here?” Pingbee asked, but he was already running for his horse.

  Alred’s gelding whinnied again and all four horses responded with agitation.

  Stroking Garth’s neck, massaging his withers, Eloise counted, three, five, how many more, she wondered, her unspoken words catching in her constricted throat? One more.

  Pingbee tightened his saddle girth, put on his shield and swung into the saddle.

  “I count six,” she said, “swords and staffs drawn,” she added, taking Cara from her shoulder. Eloise drew three arrows and gripped them securely in her bow hand. Nocking one she cued Garth forward, bow slanted even with his neck. Tiomu’s men were almost upon them. Soldiers, not knights, not all had chain mail, helms, or armor. The two men with staffs were charging in first, the remaining four, already four abreast, filled the roadway.

  “Eloise,” Roland said, his voice low, growling. “If it comes to a fight,” he said, his dark eyes raking over her, “ride.”

  Before she could nod or answer, he continued, “Southeast. You can do it.”

  Ride, alone? True, she would rather out-ride danger than confront it. But alone? To the castle?

  “Stay close, but be ready,” he hissed as the six riders slowed.

  “Greetings,” Roland hailed, as the men rode up. “Seems a belligerent tiding, armed as you are,” he said as the men surrounded them. Eloise wondered if anyone else detected the hesitation in his voice. It seemed Garth did, as he moved closer to Artoch, or had she cued him?

  “What business?” Pingbee boomed, surprising Eloise with his calm, almost friendly tone. “Do I know you?�
��

  “You do not,” one of the soldiers said harshly to Pingbee, as he glared from Roland to her. He rode a brown horse, and had his sword drawn. “It’s the black and grey we seek, the man and boy.”

  “Them? Why?” Pingbee asked. “Again, who are you to trouble us so?”

  The six soldiers seemed to study the three people before them. Eloise noted three brown horses, one grey, one dun and one bay, and all were drenched with sweat, as well as the tethered, unridden horses already grazing. The riders of the grey, dun, bay and one brown had swords. The other two riders had stout wooden staffs. None wore discernible colors or identification. All six studied her and her companions. The malice in their travel-filthy faces scared her bone deep, and she had to look away.

  “We’ve tracked these killers from Connacht,” the soldier on a brown horse answered. “Murder in Connacht, trespass in New Pembrokeshire, slaughtered innocent men upon the road. Its troublesome company you keep, sir, I warn you.”

  Roland flinched. Eloise heard gasps from the people assembling on the road to watch this confrontation. Merchants, families, travelers like themselves.

  “Eh, now you’ve done it,” Pingbee grumbled to the soldiers. He glanced back briefly at Eloise with a reassuring smile. “You’ve got the whelps pissing themselves.” He gave Roland a curt nod. “I traded those horses,” Pingbee continued. “The boy you seek is there,” and Pingbee pointed to Alred, who had somehow managed to stand, a long dagger in his hand. “And I’m your man.”

  Eloise couldn't believe her ears. Pingbee was assuming her and Roland's identities.

  “I think not,” the soldier said. “Black hair, black horse,” and the soldier pointed at Roland. “Too many days I’ve heard tales of his murderous trek. And the one-eyed whelp.” He pointed at her.

  Pingbee shrugged. “One-eyed, one-eared. You were misled.”

  Roland sat immobile, and Eloise could only imagine the scorching stare Roland laid on this false accuser, one of Tiomu’s minions. For it was the same burning hatred she radiated to Garth, who pawed the ground and bobbed his head.

  “Find the sheriff,” one of the travelers said, seated on a cart, his ducks, chickens and geese quacking, clucking and honking from their crates.

  “Call the warden,” another man said, standing just off the road.

  The crowd had grown, Eloise noted: so many people, mothers and children. Two youths waved sticks, shouting to hurry their small flock of sheep from the congestion on the roadway.

  “The warden could settle this,” Pingbee agreed. “Go, summon him.” The man turned on a heel and started to leave.

  “But my quarrel isn’t with you, good sir,” the soldier said to Pingbee, his eyes wide with concern. “I bid you fair travel,” he said, nodding his head awkwardly, probably trying to appear cordial.

  “We travel together,” Pingbee said, his voice turning harsh. “Don’t presume to dictate to me.”

  The soldier grimaced, glancing at his companions, then back to Pingbee.

  “I don’t presume, sir,” the soldier said. “Yet you travel with unlawful characters. Fugitives.”

  “We’ll let the warden decide. El,” Pingbee called to Eloise, “go with him,” and Pingbee pointed after the retreating man. “Surrender yourself as a fugitive,” Pingbee chuckled.

  Eloise looked to Roland. All color had drained from his face, his lips were dry, his eyes glowed black with tension. He nodded his head in the direction of the retreating man. Eloise hesitated a moment before spinning Garth to amble after the man in pursuit of the warden. The men didn’t move their horses quick enough to block her path. Was she to seek the warden and return, or make her escape to FitzGilbert? She glanced back, unsure, hoping Roland would give some clue. Instead she followed Roland's gaze to a man on a brown horse, his hard-eyed grimace fixed on her. “I want the boy,” she read on the man's lips, feeling him move forward.

  “I don’t suppose you have a skin bag to share while we wait?” Pingbee asked of the soldiers. “You don’t,” he answered his own question. “Is there a wine merchant or alewife among you?” she heard him call out to the travelers at large.

  The last word was barely out of Pingbee’s mouth when the lead soldier stabbed the air with his sword. “Stop them!” he shouted.

  Eloise spun Garth around to see the soldiers close in on Roland and Pingbee. The crowd erupted with noise, some running, others frozen in stunned silence. The grimacing man and another soldier broke off, cantering towards her.

  She spun Garth again. Riding broken, with vision in her right eye only, Eloise leaned forward, “Go,” cueing Garth, who leaped forward like a bolt from a crossbow. But what happened to the man she had been following? He was nowhere to be seen. Southeast to Leinster. That’s what Roland said. But...which way was that?

  Quang. The familiar sound of sword on shield. Her family was under siege again.

  FitzGilbert and the security of his castle forsaken, Eloise swung Garth around. Arrow still nocked, she galloped toward her pursuers. Full draw. Loose.

  She missed the rider, instead snipping the brown horse in the muzzle. The horse tossed his head in shock and pain, spinning and retreating to the circle of fighting men and horses. The result was unexpected but satisfactory as the rider, staff in hand tumbled to the ground. Eloise rounded back for another shot.

  The fallen rider came up swinging the staff much faster than anticipated. Eloise sat deep on Garth as her horse tried to veer away from the staff. Artoch was there and Roland intercepted the waning blow of the staff with the shield, deflecting it. Then Artoch swung his hip over, pushing the man to the ground. But the man didn’t fall. He slipped under Artoch, wrestling the staff to impale the horse in his round belly.

  Eloise nocked another arrow and turning saw the bay horse and soldier upon her. Helm, chain mail, gloves. Her attacker was lifting his sword to strike. She drew, loosed. Thwang. Her arrow stuck in the soldier’s shield. When she drew, he changed his mind about striking and defensively raised his shield. Eloise didn’t have time to cross herself in heavenly gratitude. With her third arrow she shot the soldier in the thigh - a stinging inconvenience as she fled out of range of his sword - into another.

  Seeing the sword so close, the hard, bone-splitting edge, she screamed, ear piercing and primal in its terror. She kicked Garth forward, away from the killing blades of her two attackers. She leaned forward, out of the saddle, as Garth leaped from between the converging soldiers. The bay horse shied and spun, making the rider’s thrust ineffective. These soldiers were not riding seasoned destriers. The other soldier swung and his sword lodged deep into her saddle. Garth grunted, the force causing the horse to hollow his back and shorten his stride.

  “Do not!” Eloise screamed, fearing her magnificent Garth might have been severed, urging him forward despite his potential injuries, for death was surely behind them. She felt the sword pull free, ready to strike again. Garth lunged away, putting some distance between them.

  With Garth steadied, she nocked a fourth arrow, aiming for her attacker’s sword hand. Draw. Roland, moving, was in the line of shot: he and a soldier, their hair flying, swords and shields banging.

  She turned for another target, a man on the ground. Draw. Release. Nock. Draw. Release. Two arrows in his chest, yet he kept approaching.

  She dodged, evading a mounted opponent, repositioning herself for another shot. Draw, not knowing where Pingbee or the other soldiers were, fearing at any moment she could be stabbed from behind. Loose. Miss. Focus! She commanded. Don’t think about anything but the shot.

  She and Garth again fled the attacking soldier while she nocked another arrow then turned to face her pursuer. Draw. Breath out. Loose. The soldier’s sword hand jolted nearly over his head when the arrow struck, his feet jutted forward as his horse slid to a stop. Still holding his sword, he clutched his injured hand to his chest as Eloise reached for another arrow. She had seven arrows left. Grabbing a handful, she transferred five arrows to her bow hand.


  Roland was in her line of shot again. Damn it, Roland! And his opponent: swords banging, faces grim, their horses pushing, claiming the very ground in a show of dominance. The vision in her right eye was so vivid, as if she saw with the clarity of an oracle. Faces. Like Roland, the soldier on the dun horse didn’t have a helm.

  “Go,” she said, cueing Garth toward the men, nocking an arrow, a soldier in pursuit. Draw. Aim. His face, teeth bared, nostrils flaring. Steady. Just as she was ready to let her breath out and release, the man on the ground resurrected, staff pulling back as if to impale Roland, to drive him from the saddle. Her mind registered with the rhythm of a drumbeat, one arrow, one shot, make a decision. She couldn’t stop the momentum of the attack, but having the power to do one thing, one significant action to help Roland spurred her.

  Aim. Breath out. Loose. She hit the soldier in his arm, but the staff continued to pull back.

  Nock. Draw. Loose. She hit him in the shoulder, as the staff started to plunge forward, towards Roland’s exposed back, kidneys and ribs.

  Nock. Draw. Loose. The third arrow stuck in his neck. Eloise watched as the staff continued up with diminished energy, glancing off Roland, who only leaned forward as the staff continued scraping up his back. With Roland out of the way, she had a clear shot at his mounted attacker. Nock. Draw. Loose. The attacker turned his head, her arrow tip penetrated his ear, and he toppled from his horse.

  Reaching for another arrow, Eloise sensed the soldier behind her. Arrow in hand, she nocked and turned to shoot. Instead of shooting, she collided with a dark mass as the soldier bashed her with his shield. Eloise heard the arrow crack, felt the snapping of the shaft from her fingertips, Cara screaming in her hand as she fell back. Garth pivoted and lurched, working to keep her seated.

  “Go!” she shouted, her legs out of position to cue her horse forward as she clung to the bow, still vibrating painfully in her hand from the percussion. “Go, go!” she shrieked, righting herself as the soldier shifted his own momentum, bringing his sword about.