by Anne Beggs
“Wait, I’ll help you,” Roland called to her and she sat to wait, massaging her aching leg, willing the pain to subside.
“May you have goodness, the blessings of a thousand saints,” Roland said back to Pingbee. “I agree, safest for us to keep moving.”
“Twelve horses, tack and weapons,” Pingbee said, his voice gone soft as he glanced at the scene around him.
Eloise realized that was probably greater wealth than he had ever possessed. And so it was a fortune, to her and Roland as well.
“I’ll have an accounting for you when next we meet. Either here along this very road, or in FitzGilbert’s Castle.”
The eager boys returned, clutching eight and five arrows between them, and two broken pieces.
“El, how many arrows did you have?” Pingbee asked, but Eloise couldn’t register his question.
Garth walked over and dropped his large, dappled face into her hands, but something was wrong. He was so…submissive, defeated.
“Ellie, we have to go. Can you ride?” Now it was Roland intruding on her, tugging at her. “Bleeding Saints,” he said, stroking Garth’s side, looking at the horse’s belly.
She followed his gaze and saw the slash on Garth’s girth line. Of course, when the soldier lashed out with his sword, he sliced the girth on the saddle.
“It’s not too deep,” Roland said, pushing the hair back with his fingers so she could see the wound. “Truly, it’s not so deep. But fucking Satan’s horns.”
“And his eye matches yours, El,” Pingbee called out, having ridden over to them. “Here,” he held out her bow.
Eloise looked again at her magnificent stallion’s face. Almighty, Pingbee was right, Garth’s left eye was swelling shut as her own. Curse that damn staff, curse Tiomu and all his foul, unholy, treacherous mercenaries. Not now, she commanded herself, curses and oaths of revenge could wait. Garth. What could she do for him?
Eloise turned her attention from Garth’s eye and reached for her bow. Cara.
“May you have goodness,” she said looking up at Pingbee, then remembered, “fifteen. I had fifteen arrows.” She took them from the boys, “May you have goodness, and blessings.”
Holding the bow, she lifted an edge from her tunic and squeezed down the length of the string, removing the blood and flesh. She repeated the cleaning, then slipped Cara over her shoulder.
“Take one of the other horses,” Pingbee was saying. She would not ride another horse. She would not abandon Garth.
“Nay,” she heard Roland answer, before she could decline herself. It was like she was suspended outside this scene, Roland and Pingbee talking while she tried to calculate what to do.
“Maiden of Dahlquin,” Roland was saying, taking her hand, pulling her attention away from Garth again.
She turned to him, ready to snap, to scream, to lash out herself. She tried to pull her hand away, but Roland tightened his grip. Wrath and hatred reared and kicked, like two unbiddable horses dancing on a precipice. The heat was spreading, embracing, promising to end her suffering…it was a false promise, wrath was weakness. She wouldn’t succumb. She looked from Roland to Pingbee, and found they were looking to her. Pingbee’s expression, once so loathsome, had transformed. She saw concern and loyalty, the same feelings that had brought her back to the fight. Her fight. She inhaled and felt power inflate her lungs.
“You would do me great honor if you wished to ride with me. Artoch’s rump and my waist are at your service, Maiden,” Roland said.
She felt the power growing in her hands as she stroked Garth with one, while Roland held the other. Dahlquin was strong.
“Your choice,” Roland said. Eloise felt the strength in his gentle tone. “But we must ride.”
“Hurry up,” Pingbee ordered. “This lot is already pilfering our loot. Make haste, maiden.”
“May you have goodness, Lord,” she said to Roland as she turned, facing Garth, waiting for a leg up.
“If you have a change of heart, my offer stands,” Roland said taking her ankle and lifting her up to Garth’s broad, bare back.
“Go, go, go,” Pingbee said, as Roland mounted up. “In a few days’ time,” he called to them as they rode southeast, once again on the road to High Lord FitzGilbert’s Castle.
The rain was brief and passed quickly. They had ridden for miles, and only now was her mind beginning to put together the pieces from the horrendous battle with Tiomu’s men back on the road. She had done nothing for Garth, there was little to be done. She shuddered, remembering Alred.
“Change of heart?” Roland asked, looking hopeful.
“I have not, may you have goodness for your concern, Roland,” she added.
“Cold upon you?” he asked. “Get very wet in that shower?”
“It is not, but again I wish goodness upon you kindly.”
“Well, I did, and it would be much warmer for me, if you share my saddle,” he said.
“Do you think Pingbee will locate a healer for Alred?” Eloise asked. She didn’t know if Alred’s stitches had ruptured or if the blood was merely seepage. “He was unconscious when we left,” she added. “And I didn’t take time-” Guilt threatened to seep over her like the squire’s blood.
“Fuck Alred!” Roland snapped. “A few hours ago you wanted him dead. Cold and misery are upon me and you drone on about Alred.”
“Sorrow upon me,” she started, stung by his foul language, and misuse. She paused a moment, waiting, hoping he would apologize.
“Fucking waste of time. Stitching him up. When we should have been riding.” He glared at her. His expression black as a rain cloud.
Eloise tucked her chin and glared back at him. How dare he speak to her in that tone?
“You cut his ear off, remember? He was bleeding to death.”
“As you wished. Damned wastrel. When did you lose your heart to him?”
“I never,” Eloise paused. “I told you. I don’t know why. I couldn’t turn my back. Healers-” she didn’t finish.
“Healers... Black mag-” Roland stopped himself. “And if you hadn’t attacked Pingbee.”
“I didn’t attack Pingbee.”
“You drew upon him, threatened to murder him,” Roland growled, startling her with his anger. “And no fighter’s stance,” he barked, raising a finger in warning, blunt English blurring his speech.
Eloise turned her head. She knew she had been wrong, but still she fumed at the unfairness of it. She felt helpless and angry. Her family name had been grossly insulted, and she was unable to do anything about it. There was no one to stand up for her, or her family. What happened to their friendship, their camaraderie after the battle? She trembled, remembering the feel of his hands, his lips…now Roland insisted on making her acutely aware of that over and over again. She had no one. She was displaced. If something - not something, precisely - if her parents were killed, would she retain Dahlquin? Would the High Lord FitzGilbert or the king reinstate her, unmarried, seventeen? Would she find herself utterly dispossessed, without even her good name? Was life without Dahlquin worth living? Now she was, what? Convent fodder? Convents only took wealthy women. Would FitzGilbert or the king stake her? None of those, her parents would survive. She would seek help, and they would send for her. The name would not die here, with her.
“You were fighting over a grouse,” she retorted, keeping her chin neutral. “Was that worth dying for?”
“Of course not. You understand nothing.”
“I understand when my family-” she started but he cut her off.
“If you had kept your place and been still-”
“I would never tolerate such insults to your mother,” she said, her voice becoming shrill.
“Be quiet,” Roland said. After a long pause, he added, “By your will.”
Eloise flared at this. Her one open eye squinted with anger and her features pinched up on her right side. She pursed her lips together, then exhaled hard through her teeth, and pursed her lips again. Roland could read
the vulgarities in her expression. Eloise was fighting hard to behave, and it tempered his anger. He suppressed a grin. It would be discourteous to make sport of her now. Damn, that girl could talk. Not just impertinently, or out of turn. Her perspective could be so different from his, yet she presented such reasonable arguments. A pious blasphemer, devoted seditionist, and the most fascinating and provocative woman he had ever crossed paths with. And the visage in her eyes.
Roland took a deep breath, recovering from his own volatile upheaval. Of course, he was angry, furious. Couldn’t she see what she was doing to him? He had never been so fucking, heart piercingly scared. Not in his life, nor for his life. His breath quickened with the memory of that intense, blood-pounding fear. And even before he had a chance to explore this new realm of Eloise-induced terror, she was prattling on about Alred. With nary a word to his own suffering on her behalf. Fucking, God damned, cockless Alred! Roland felt a roar building. Gone was the suppressed smile of moments passed.
Unconvinced that Maiden Eloise wasn’t a heretic or succubus, Roland was perplexed by her, drawn to her as a siren’s call. Was it death he would find with her, or life? Life. She was life, and to deny that would be death. Who or what she was, he may never know, but he was destined to love and protect her. He had seen in it her eyes when first they met.
The remaining miles to the castle were, as Roland had said, even more populated. She and Roland were never alone. Village upon village, towns or estates, they all blended together. One walled city extended to another, as if Hadrian’s Wall had miraculously been completed in Ireland. Less open space and wilderness, more contained, with cultivated woods and parks. And so many people. Eloise was amazed at how many people made up this land. Oh, of course, she had heard stories. But to see them, nameless and faceless in their multitude, it wasn’t as she had expected. The wilderness of Dahlquin called to her heart, and she felt the wildness within herself.
For miles they rode without talking, in the summer twilight.
Poor Garth. He was hurt too, his left eye swelling shut from the blow of the staff, just as hers was swollen shut from the mercenary’s club. And that sword wound to his girth. Lord be merciful, that may take weeks to heal properly, assuming bad humors didn’t infest his proud hide.
“Good boy,” she cooed, stroking his wet neck. She hugged him with her legs, hoping he wouldn’t take it as a cue, but as the loving gesture she meant it to be. His broad, sweaty back was comforting and familiar underneath her. “You magnificent beast.”
Hurting inside and out, Eloise found solace in riding yet again, the rhythm and pulse of the horse unclogging her spirit, opening her mind rather than her eyes. She remembered Sir Pingbee. Belligerent, rude, caustic, yet he was willing to trade his life: for Dahlquin. Even Alred had taken a stand with her.
“We can still make it.” Roland said, interrupting her meditative state. “At this pace, I think we can get there in the earliest hours. Shall we push on?” he asked.
Shall we push on? He was asking her, why should he ask her? Didn’t she displease him? Who was he? Where did he stand? All these thoughts flooded her mind as she returned to the present. Eloise looked up at him. Roland sat before her on his horse. His handsome dark face looked at her with anticipation in the dim summer twilight. Anticipation. Happy or sad? She stared at him, studying him, looking for clues to something just beyond her understanding.
And it was all gone. Her mind cleared of all the philosophy and prayer and turned to FitzGilbert’s castle. Hope for her parents’ relief, salvation for her kinsmen. Eloise had her immediate destiny before her. Tonight.
“With your blessing and will,” she answered without further hesitation, riding on with Roland. He is a magnificent beast, she thought to herself.
The darkness brought Eloise in closer to Roland, seeking protection. Crickets chirped. The occasional frog added his love call to the chorus of the night. A few hours ago, she would have been angry for the weakness and betrayal to herself. But those thoughts were behind her now. Eloise cued Garth to Roland’s right side as they rode on.
In their silent closeness, Eloise sensed an increasing feeling of dread as they drew closer to the castle of the High Lord FitzGilbert. Five days they had relentlessly pushed forward, completing a two-week journey in that time. There were some who had spanned the distance in six days changing mounts, but she and Roland made the journey in five days, despite many miseries and one day in the village. With their mission nearly completed, she felt a different anxiety and thought Roland did too. Eloise had strived for this hour since fleeing from her home. Now, she couldn’t understand her feelings.
Roland felt distress. The cause rode next to him. In less than an hour, he would turn over the Maiden Eloise to the guardianship of High Lord FitzGilbert. This mission complete, he and FitzGilbert’s men would devise and implement a plan to liberate Dahlquin and Ashbury, thus defending Ireland from U’Neill and his northern mercenaries. Roland would give her up, submit her to another man’s care. It was High Lord FitzGilbert of Leinster. Who better to protect her, but Roland was loath to surrender her. The dereliction of duty stung at his sense of honor, but his heart and body spoke with a greater urgency. His Dahlquin headache had become a Dahlquin heartache.
The travelers made their way through the darkness. This close to home, Artoch was a steady mount, and Roland gave him his head. The tired, hungry horse was anxious to return to familiar territory. Garth followed his companion; the miles had brought these two stallions into a state of mutual companionship based on fatigue. Then Eloise felt Garth’s back tense and his head jerked up. Heads bobbing side to side, both horses moved with a stilted step.
Wolves howled.
The wolf song was so close.
“Fuck,” Roland muttered, hand on his sword handle.
“Melodious,” Eloise whispered, wondering why he was so distressed. “It’s like a Gregorian chant,” she said, feeling her heart lift, as if the wolves were welcoming her, forgiving her the deaths. For wolves understand.
Then another yodel, farther off, but just as melodic.
“Beautiful,” Eloise said, feeling the song resonate within her.
Roland said nothing but gave her a hard, wary glance, intensified by the dim light, as if he thought she might throw her head back and answer them.
Roland didn’t hear it, but the wolves told her: Dahlquin stood.
The horses softened and Roland and Eloise continued riding in silence on towards the security of FitzGilbert’s castle.
Roland pulled to a stop on a small rise to share with Eloise one of his favorite views of the castle, pointing through some oaks, stunted by the rough conditions on the hillside. There was little to see in the dim twilight, but some fires and torches illuminated the parapets. They were here. Once the home of Roland, and now the sanctuary of Eloise, the castle lay before the homeless pair. Roland never saw his estate in Ashbury. Eloise was displaced while the siege of Dahlquin raged. Not sure where they would find their homes in the next few months, they sat on their horses in silence.
“Wait,” Roland said, pivoting Artoch so he and Eloise faced each other, side by side, faces dim in the evening light.
Eloise could barely draw breath as her heart pounded with the closeness of Roland. Darkness made his presence less threatening and she didn’t move away.
Removing his glove, he caressed a strand of her mussed hair with his fingertips, until his hand came to her shoulder. He took her arm and pulled them together, kissing her on the lips.
Her heart seemed to stop. Although bruised and cracked, her lips tingled with new sensation.
Roland sat back, placing his thumb on her chin and resting his pointing finger under her chin. Her head tipped back, and her lips parted. Kissing her again, his tongue eased into her mouth. He held her chin so she couldn’t retreat.
Frozen in her first kiss, Eloise was alight, captivated by the smooth sensuality as his tongue explored her mouth. Her throat constricted with anticipation, as he
r shoulders went slack with submission. Unfamiliar tingles ignited within her nipples, and she arched with the sensation, seeking more, almost pulling away from Roland’s grasp.
He held her chin firmly, yet so gently. The strength of his hand spread warm currents through her body, the dawning rays of sunlight upon the cold, dark horizon of her new life. Eloise melted into his touch, sinking into the depth of him, being swallowed up. For the first time in five days she felt safe. For the first time in ages, she felt as if she belonged.
He withdrew his tongue, his lips, and his grip on her chin. It was over. Eloise was bereft. A flood of emotions washed over her, she thought she might fall from her horse. He had kissed her. She felt as if a piece of her maidenhood had been taken, it was so intimate. Had she kissed him back? What should she have done? Had he enjoyed it? She didn’t know how to kiss. Ecstatic and worried, she wondered: Had she sinned? Did she want more? Her mouth was still open, and she closed it, savoring the memory. His name formed in her mind, his taste and strength so real, but she was unable to form the word.
“I will speak with your father when I return to Dahlquin,” Roland said, moving away and directing them both toward the castle below.
His voice sounded raw but sure. Eloise knew he meant their marriage. Willingly she, Cara and Garth followed him.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born with the horse gene, my first spoken word was "worsey" for horsey. I was drawing, painting and spinning tales of my imaginary equines for years. My Medieval Fetish is nearly as long. I am still married to my high school sweetheart and while raising our daughter and son, I researched the Middle Ages into Middle Age and beyond. I now live the horse dream and we run a boarding ranch in Santa Cruz County. 'Riting, riding, reading and sometimes 'rchery make up my four "R's”. The journey continues to find a voice, discover the inner hero and help others find theirs.