Cranky Ladies of History

by Tehani Wessely

  Within, the light is brighter than before, strong enough that she cannot see the stars though there is yet no roof overhead. The walls pulse with brilliant colour, like an aurora caught in stone. From the corner of her eye, Grace can see mac Lir watching her, and she sets her chin. She won’t show this creature her amazement, like some shoeless savage out of Africa.

  “Gifts, O King,” she says, and gestures to Lars to put down the trunk.

  Mac Lir ignores her offering. “Where is the other?” he demands in that uncanny voice. “What of his promised gifts?”

  “Here,” calls Sidney from the doorway. He’s entering without dignity, arse-first, bent in the middle, dragging a muddy sea-chest behind him. It squeals and scrapes across the smooth stone of the floor as he hauls it closer. “Wait,” Sidney says. “I will fetch the second chest.” He darts out again.

  Grace shrugs. “If it’s all the same, O King, I’ll be on my way now.” She averts her eyes. “Truth is, I am frightened by you and the other great ones. I have given you great tribute. I beg you please—spare me and my vessel.”

  Mac Lir stares at her from those dark, dark eyes. “Return to your ship, then,” he says. “Bide there. Soon I will open the gate. I will send for you when you are required.”

  Required? For what? Grace wonders to ask, but in that moment Sidney returns, dragging his second chest. Once he settles it by the first, Grace catches his arm. “Come,” she says. “The King Under the Sea has dismissed us.”

  “What?” Sidney straightens, and tries to throw off her arm. Grace tightens her hand around his skinny forearm, digging her fingers in where it will hurt. He winces and pulls at her hand, but she has a strong grip and she knows how to use it. “Let go of me,” he snaps.

  “Best leave now,” she says. “Don’t want to displease His Majesty with his guests on their way, eh?”

  “What?” Sidney frowns.

  Oh, now the boy is suddenly deaf? “We are leaving,” Grace hisses.

  The boy sets himself to make a contest of strength, and Grace has half a mind to abandon the pup. Mac Lir himself intervenes with a slow, imperious nod.

  “You will leave now,” he says. “The Opening of the Gate is not for your eyes. Your gifts will be safe. I will show them to the others when they come, and we will send for you.” The dark eyes gleam. “You will speak for us to this queen of yours, Philip Sidney.”

  “My King,” Sidney says, “I would be honoured—”

  Grace makes a sign to Lars. The Icelander grabs the boy’s other arm, covers his mouth with his free hand, and together they drag him out of the palace of light into the clean Irish summer night.

  “What was all that about?” snaps Sidney, once Lars lets go of his face. “Release me, the pair of you!”

  “Shut up,” suggests Grace. “We can talk about this at the bottom of the hill.”

  “But—I want to see,” says Sidney, looking back over his shoulder as Lars and Grace haul him downhill through the drying mud. “And the gifts! I must explain the gifts! How will he know what to do with the tobacco? The chocolatl? These things must be done properly!”

  “It will wait, lad,” Grace says. “Now pick your feet up, you’re slowing us down!” She yanks the lad’s feet free of the mud and Lars does the same on the other side. Staggering, puffing, sliding in places where the mud is still loose and wet, they wrestle Sidney down the hill like a cranky child between its parents.

  Near the bottom, Grace’s strength gives way and she simply lets the boy go. She finds a great stone, and puts it between her and the marvellous, terrible light of the palace on the hillside. Breathing heavily, she glares at Sidney. “Idiot,” she says. “What were you thinking?”

  Sidney is shaking with rage. “You lay hands on me!” he snarls. “You—dragged me! You and your beast-man! I will have your heads, I swear it!”

  “Maybe,” says Grace. “But it won’t be tonight.” She heaves in another great, gasping breath, and settles herself in the muck. There’s no question about it. She’s getting old. She looks up at Sidney. “You didn’t ask me what gifts I brought in my trunk.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Why should I?” says Sidney. “You will have done your best.”

  “My best,” says Grace. “Yes.” She looks to the stars, and tries to guess the time. “You talked about freedom before,” she says, to cover the silence. “You said you’d strike a bargain: our freedom in exchange for the nations of the Continent.”

  “A thought. A plan,” says Sidney. “There were other possibilities, of course.”

  Grace shakes her head. She beckons to Lars, who blinks, and nods, and sits down next to her in the mud. “You should probably sit down here too,” she tells Sidney. “Put some good stone betwixt you and that thing on the hilltop.”

  When the boy doesn’t move, Grace sighs, and signals Lars again. The big Icelander stands, glowering. Hastily, Sidney sits down next to Grace. She moves over, making space for Lars to rejoin them. “Freedom isn’t a thing that can be granted,” she says, catching Sidney’s eye. She wants him to understand. “If it can be given to you, it can be taken away again, you see? It’s not freedom unless you can take it for yourself, and none can take it back.”

  Sidney shifts uncomfortably. Something squelches, down near his arse. “I suppose I see your point,” he admits. “But they are few, and we are many. And in time, as I said, we will master their arts.” He turns a little, and looks at her directly. “What has this to do with your gifts? What did you bear in that trunk?”

  “Your freedom and mine,” she says. “Achmed’s keg, and a slow match.”

  Thunder smites the world, and the darkness turns red-white with a roar. A rain of stones splatters mud in all directions. A piece of rock the size of a man’s head lands almost between Sidney’s feet. He stares at it in horror as the earth shudders underfoot, shaking and roaring and growling like the island itself is being beaten.

  Then the noise dies away, but in its place is a gurgling, rushing noise, and Grace can hear the cries of her lads as they scramble for the galley. “Up, boy,” she says, and pulls herself out of the muck. “Looks as though mac Lir’s island is returning whence it came. Like as not your Captain Runyon will have his hands full. I’ll take you back to Galway town my own self.”

  “What have you done?” Sidney says in a half whisper. He rises, and looks back up the hill. “What have you done?” he says again.

  Grace observes the still-smoking wreckage of Manannan mac Lir’s palace, and enjoys the warmth it makes in her belly. “I showed him a marvel of our age, boy. Cheer up,” she says, and punches him in the shoulder. “How many people do you know as can say they helped to blow up a god?”

  Then the first rivulets of returning water crawl over her sea-boots, and laughing, Grace O’Malley, the Pirate Queen of Connacht runs for her boat.

  “Granuaile” by Dirk Flinthart

  LITTLE BATTLES

  L.M. Myles

  Was God so very reluctant to meet her? How old could a person grow, anyway?

  Eleanor, by the Grace of God, queen of the English, stared down at her hands. Thin, wrinkled skin was speckled with liver spots, and pain throbbed through her stiff fingers. Still, they held the reins well enough.

  She looked at the young woman riding beside her: Blanche, yet another of her grandchildren now old enough to be wed. She had so many grandchildren, and she found them a comfort, when they did not take up arms against her sons, at least. They were so young: she could not possibly outlive them all.

  The drizzle of rain thickened. A young oak, growing close to the road, shivered in the wind. Eleanor’s joints ached, and her muscles. It was the cold; it was no good for her. John knew that, and he certainly knew how old she was, and yet he had sent her to Castile anyway. She had not gone because her son had asked her, but because she knew that he had been right to do so. She had ruled Aquitaine and England, and seen more than most of the world; what was one more journey to choose the next queen of F
rance? The septuagenarian English queen leading her small expedition over the Pyrenees to see which of her Castilian granddaughters would be most suited to the French throne. Why not?

  Eleanor had held it herself, once, long ago. She knew what was needed in France, what was needed in a queen, and she had chosen the younger princess. The French wouldn’t like that; they would consider it an insult. She was doing them a favour, giving them a girl more suited to their court’s sensibilities, but God knew Philip wouldn’t listen to reason when he could infer a slight.

  “We should stop soon, her grace is tired.” Sir William of Hovedon. An ugly lump of a man, but he had a sound mind even if he did mistake age for fragility.

  “Am I indeed?” said Eleanor. The man had sharp eyes that turned away swiftly at her anger. What had he seen, anyway? Her expression was carefully neutral, she was certain of that. Had she slumped or sighed? Was he simply assuming, knowing that she was an old woman?

  “I am tired, grandmother,” said Blanche. “I’m not used to such great journeys as you.” Eleanor almost smiled. A nice bit of diplomacy that. Shame that Blanche’s Spanish accent was so strong. The French wouldn’t like it, any more than the Saxon English took to Eleanor’s own French one.

  “There’s a campsite clearing a mile or so ahead,” said Mercadier. “I’ve used it often when I’ve been on this road.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “Might be the best we can hope for, if this storm breaks.”

  Eleanor’s heart lightened at his words. Mercadier unsettled her knights; he was a mercenary, and they were suspicious of loyalty plainly bought. But he had been beloved by her Richard, had fought alongside him. He had bloodied his sword at her own call when John’s inheritance was at stake.

  There was a murmur among her men-at-arms, and Eleanor felt sure that Sir William was going to make some objection. “Well,” she said, settling the matter, “if we must spend a night in the rain, I shall appreciate Ombrière Palace all the more when we reach it.”

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  There were deer in these woods, and Blanche had gone with the hunting party. Did the dauphin hunt? Eleanor wasn’t sure. If so it would be something he could share with his wife. If not, Blanche could encourage him to take up the diversion. Always good for a king to hunt; that, at least, never changed.

  In her tent, Eleanor closed her eyes and listened to the bustle of activity outside, letting it drown her thoughts. Sleep came in awkward starts, failing to ease the aches in her body. A queen required constant energy, but hers refused to co-operate, waxing and waning with an irritating capriciousness.

  It was Sir William who came to break her rest. She blinked her tiredness away as she took in his expression, and noted how far down the candles had burned. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked.

  “Your grace…” His eyes darted to the tent flap; his neck and shoulders were stiff with tension.

  “Spit it out, man.” Eleanor had the distinct feeling this was what the man looked like just as battle became inevitable.

  “Your grace, the hunting party has returned. They were attacked. Men are dead. The princess has been taken.”

  Eleanor’s breath came sharply. Hot, fierce anger rose in her chest, but she did not let it enter her voice. “How did this happen?”

  “They were outnumbered by their attackers. Many hours were spent searching for the princess, but they could find no trace of her.”

  Many hours. Eleanor looked at the candle again. They had been too afraid to return to her, she realised. “Mercadier knows these lands,” she said. “Bring him to me.”

  A few minutes later, the mercenary bowed as he entered her tent. “Your grace, how can I be of service?”

  “Whose lands are these?” she demanded. “Have we stumbled into the domain of some feckless baron who cannot keep the peace?”

  “I don’t know who took your granddaughter, but I believe we are only a few leagues from a castle owned by Hugh le Brun.”

  Sir William huffed. “These were brutes, not knights.”

  Mercadier shrugged. “As you say. I can seldom tell the difference.”

  “The Lusignans,” muttered Eleanor. “I don’t doubt that family is capable of carrying a grudge through the generations. Hugh le Brun is by all accounts a tedious man incapable of reason. I would not put this past him.” She looked at the two men before her. “Outlaws, knights, or mercenaries, it matters not. I want my granddaughter back.”

  “I am as familiar with this county as any, your grace,” said Mercadier. “We will find her.”

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  Eleanor did not sleep. Patience came to her much more easily than dreams. She sat in the centre of the camp, staring at the flames of a modest fire. It was getting harder to stay warm; each day the sun grew colder.

  Time burnt away in the flicker of red and orange.

  “We have found her, your grace.”

  Eleanor looked up. She could see only the outline of Sir William’s face in the darkness. Another figure stood a little behind him; Mercadier, she assumed.

  “Where is she?” she asked.

  “We do not have her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “The men who took the princess hold her near an old ruin of a fortress some miles north. Along with a few of your knights. I imagine they wish to trade them for ransom…”

  She turned back to the flames. “Ransom? I’ve paid enough ransoms for one lifetime. Bad enough to pay one to a king, but to some brutish outlaws? I think not.”

  “I don’t believe they are outlaws, your grace,” said Mercadier, stepping forward. “Their armour is well-cared for, and they have good swords. These are not desperate men.”

  “Do we have the men and arms to take them?” she asked.

  “With surprise and the night to cover our approach, I say it can be done,” Mercadier told her. Eleanor believed him. He was skilled in battle and not a man for false optimism.

  “Should we not be more cautious, your grace? If we send to Bordeaux for aid…” said Sir William.

  “I will not have my granddaughter’s journey delayed. I want an attack ready for first light. See to it.”

  Her voice held no doubt but as they left her, she allowed herself a moment to imagine what could happen if she was wrong. She knew how fragile life could be, how easy it was to step too close to a castle wall and into the eye-line of a lucky bowman…but what good was regret?

  Her imaginings came to a hard conclusion, cold as an English winter: if Blanche died, there were other princesses in the Castilian court.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  She had wrapped herself in thick layers but away from the comfort of the fire, the night air stung her throat. Around her, men crept forward through the forest, their weapons drawn. Someone stumbled, and muffled a gasp of pain. Eleanor looked up. Dawn would break within the hour, and she would know which way the dice had landed.

  Until then, she refused to let herself worry.

  Two men stayed behind with her. Youths, really. One was too young to even have a beard. “Your names?” she asked them.

  “Harry, your grace,” said the elder.

  She smiled. “A good name.”

  “I’m Thomas, your grace.” He couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

  “Be brave now, Thomas. It’s a hard thing to fight, but harder still to do nothing while others fight for you.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “Patience is a great virtue, for a soldier, and a man,” she said. Patience had become her greatest strength.

  The forest lightened moment by moment. Small animals rustled in the undergrowth; waking birds called out, but her men were too far away to be heard.

  A strange urge to laugh rose within her. She felt as though she was rising up and up, above the trees, reaching for the clouds. Looking down, she saw the frail figure of an old woman, the tapestry of her life stretching behind her, threads reaching out to mark every corner of Ch
ristendom.

  It started quietly: cries of pain and warning shouts. Eleanor closed her eyes, and prayed.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  They took her to Blanche as soon as the camp was secured.

  “She’s unharmed?” Eleanor asked, striding through the mulch of the forest floor.

  “Yes, your grace,” said her escort.

  “Her captors?”

  “Most are dead.”

  The fortress ruins were a filthy mess, decorated with broken and bloodied corpses. Sir William had taken charge of Blanche, and moved her away from the carnage. The girl was wrapped in a fresh blanket and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

  Eleanor embraced her granddaughter and thanked God she had come through her ordeal safely. She looked down at the girl’s face: pale but no tears.

  “Weren’t you frightened?” she asked.

  Blanche held her grandmother’s hand tightly. “I knew you were nearby,” she said.

  Eleanor laughed. “Such faith in an old woman: I commend you for your good sense. Can you ride? William, find her a horse. Where is Mercadier?”

  Sir William bowed, a frown etching his forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

  Eleanor insisted on seeing his body.

  Her stomach twisted at the sight: he had been shot by arrows several times, and taken a blade in his shoulder. Quick, she hoped, it must have been quick.

  “He fought well,” Sir William told her. Of course he had. He always did. As fierce and brilliant a warrior as her own dear son.

  As Eleanor stared down at Mercadier, she felt the stillness within her deepen. Richard’s brother-in-arms, her protector, her weapon: dead. Another thread of her life cut away.