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  ARCHER’S GRACE

  BOOK ONE DAHLQUIN CHRONICLES

  ARCHER’S GRACE

  By

  Anne M. Beggs

  Copyright © 2004 Anne M. Beggs

  ISBN: 978-0-9891302-0-2

  Visit the author at: https://annembeggs.com/

  Cover design: Matthew Ryan at: http://matthewryanhistoricalillustrator.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without expressed written consent of the author, except in the case of brief, attributed quotations used for review, article or research purposes.

  This is a work of fiction with some historical context. Other names, characters, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my family.

  To my husband, Russell J. Beggs, DMD

  To my daughter, June

  To my son, Steven

  With love, respect, joy and gratitude.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book and these stories would never have been committed to paper or “e” if not for the encouragement of my beloved, devoted family. My husband, Russell J. Beggs, DMD; and children, June and Steven, who listened to the stories on road trips and demanded I write them down.

  Next - to my dearest friend, June Nichols; Uncle John and Cousins Michelle, Chris and Bill who endured 700 pages of head-hopping tripe and exposition, and still called me Author and encouraged me to keep writing. You guys, dang! It was bad. Hopefully, you won’t recognize this book from that doorstop. Thank you.

  Thank you to Professional Editor Douglas Childers, who also saw through the rough 700 pages and didn’t shame me out of putting fingers to keyboard. Thank you to Historical Editor Jody Allen who provided much guidance, research and encouragement.

  To my writer’s groups, especially Cathy Cress and Eiko Ceremony who read through two full manuscripts and gave helpful, needed critique. Thank you.

  Again, to Cathy Cress who continued to guide and drive me through marketing, social networking and to publish no matter what.

  Huge, thank you to my daughter, June, for her ardent support as editor and proofreader.

  And very special thank you to and gratitude for Editor Thomas A. Simmons, who pushed, prodded, motivated and enlightened. Thank you for enjoying my stories as I wanted to write and helping me to publish. Prosit.

  FORWARD

  This book is a work of fiction, with most characters and places being imaginary.

  I may have researched the Middle Ages into middle age and beyond but have chosen to write my characters and their stories outside the historic framework. I can recommend many textbooks and resources online for hard core history. Because my Medieval fetish runs long and deep, research has been as much fun as writing-however, my characters speak with greater urgency.

  I do attempt to recreate everyday details of life, food, dress, and living as much as I can within the fictional world I have built.

  PART ONE

  DAHLQUIN, CONNACHT, IRELAND, AD 1224, 7th of June

  The hunter acknowledged there was always risk leaving the security of the castle with naught but two hounds, a steed, bow and arrows, but mayhap the greater risk lay in missing this glorious ride altogether. Absence of rain was celebration enough. Hounds and horse and red deer devoured the turf in joyous strides in their natural world where heaven and earth were one.

  Fatigue and thirst brought the partners to water where the old stag, too, drank. Dismounting, the hunter tethered the wire-haired hounds to a yew. Tails low, heads drooping, the restrained hounds gazed up, their wet, brown eyes enlarged with beckoning as the hunter ordered silence before remounting.

  The hunter peered through the coppiced hazel and brambles, attentive to each flare of nostril or blink of the red stag’s eyes before slowly drawing the bow, Cara by name, which meant friend, companion. And so it was: a short, straight bow of pure mountain yew from Connacht’s highest forest, strung for a fast, light pull from ground or horseback. The hunter shot many bows, but Cara seemed to sing in the hand, the soul of the ancient tree reborn in this weapon, this guardian of Dahlquin.

  Anchor. The hunter sought the feel of this new hand placement, not at the edge of the mouth as before, but past the collarbone, nearly to the shoulder, the mounted archer’s stance. Steady old friend, the hunter thought as the stag lowered his head to drink, weary from the morning’s chase. Only a heart or lung shot would satisfy for there was no honor in a clumsy kill.

  Release. The broad head disappeared into the furry chest without a sound. Four cloven hooves sprang from the earth. The tethered hounds yipped then barked. Had they heard the string? Or was it the scent of blood revealing success?

  The dappled stallion flinched. Alert, the stallion turned his head to the left, slowly returning his attention to the hunter.

  “Easy Garth, good boy,” cooed the hunter stroking the sweaty mane and neck of the horse, as much for the sake of the dying stag as the noble steed. Blood spread from the puncture wound in a widening circle on the heaving stag. Now began the wait for the wounded animal to bleed out. A prolonged chase would taint the flavour of the meat and dishonor the spirit.

  After a few cautious glances, the stag lowered his head to graze. Scarlet ribbons unfurled from the stag’s nostrils; the pools startled him. Lifting his head, he tried to swallow but instead coughed, blood foamed from his mouth. Even his eyes seemed sanguine tinged to the grateful hunter.

  With head bowed, the hunter made the sign of the cross and gave praise. “May you have goodness, Blessed Mother and Queen of the Forest.” Another voice was reciting the prayer, startling the hunter.

  “Nice shot, Eloise. Even with that light bow, you buried the fletch.”

  “Tommy!” the hunter yelped, her long, amber braid swinging to her side. “How long have you been here? And Nova,” she added recognising her pony.

  Tommy, a shortened version of his name Tomaltach, Eloise’s childhood playmate, was a pigeon-boy-turned-archer and apprentice bowyer. Social standing had made little difference to these two co-conspirators of disguise. Both now in their seventeenth year, it was a new dynamic and not so easy to exchange garments and identities.

  “Stable master sent me after you. On your pony, Saint Sebastian be praised, because the old King of the Forest gave you quite a ‘harty’ chase,” Tommy grinned. “Glad I wasn’t on foot.”

  Eloise chuckled at his pun, and the deep register of his voice still gave her pause. Such an odd boy. Not a boy. A man, she remembered.

  “As I’ve said before, you would make a suitable game warden. Your stealth. Some quiet mastiffs instead of those hunting hounds. Taking the thieving poachers down with your arrows,” Tommy said, grinning.

  “And you,” she added, remembering the dreams of youth.

  “Your mouth is bleeding,” Tommy said, his green eyes wide with concern.

  Eloise tasted blood but felt no pain. “Fletch burn,” she offered, hoping that would appease.

  “Is not, you shot from the chest. I saw you,” Tommy corrected.

  Curse your attentiveness, Eloise thought, shrugging, looking to the stag as he tottered then collapsed.

  “Guilt of the Huntress,” Tommy said.

  Eloise turned to him, stung by the words. “What?” she asked, wishing her voice had been as sure as his. She wasn’t…an anomaly.

  “Your father’s term,” Tommy said gently. “You bleed when you kill.”

  Tommy dismounted to check the stag for a pulse. “Do you want to carry it back or should I?” he asked.

  “I’ll loose Beast and Dragon,” she said, turning tow
ard her two loyal companions still tethered to the yew, relieved at the change of topic. “You take the deer,” she answered. “The Old King,” she sighed, crossing herself again. “Tough in life and tougher on the trencher,” she smiled.

  “I’d wager that. But it won’t grant your parents’ forgiveness, sneaking off as you did,” he answered, now serious.

  Her shoulders slumped with the reminder. Then she let her breath out and rolled her eyes at Tommy. “Want to trade costumes so I can sneak back in?” She felt herself sparkle with renewed hope.

  “That rustic tunic, I would not,” he grinned. “But you know I’d kill for the chemise,” he winked.

  They shared a quiet gaze. Eloise remembered the beatings he had endured for the love of wearing female apparel, well beyond any childhood disguise.

  “With or without me?” she asked, trying for an adult smile. A flush of embarrassment roasted her as she tried to bury the sudden image of herself and Tommy together in the chemise.

  “Don’t tease,” he said. His shoulders went slack, but his face took on an impassive expression she didn't recognise.

  It sent a shiver through Eloise. Why did I say that? she wondered, feeling guilty. And why did he look at me like that?

  DAHLQUIN CASTLE, A. D. 1224, 7th of June

  Walking toward the kitchen, Eloise inhaled. Her stomach tightened as she savored the aroma of venison broth, leeks and hearty gravy. Smiling, Eloise and her mother entered the kitchen, noisy with the sound of three to ten workers chopping flesh or vegetables, pounding dough, plus the familiar voices barking orders, gossiping or singing-always.

  The walls were slate grey stone with two large doorways at either end, with one window. Dahlquin had a stone oven for baking bread in the kitchen as well as a baking silo outside the kitchen. The blackened stone hearth was tall enough for a short man to stand in, and twice as long. Metal hooks hung from the top. Today a large, ebony cauldron and two medium kettles hung in the flames. A large metal rack, with three bars, like ladder rungs, was standing in the hearth with the browning and dripping haunches roasting on the highest bar. Soon cockerels would be added. This was the late spring feast that awaited Dahlquin and the guests.

  “Uninvited guests are the scourge of hospitality,” old Muireann the head cook muttered. Generally noisy, the castle kitchen buzzed with heightened excitement.

  “Remember, if you turn away my brother, so you turn away me,” someone recited as a reminder.

  “That’s true for beggars and the like, not well-fed noblemen,” another kitchen worker complained above the noise. Seven hungry strangers, for there was no other kind, had ridden to Dahlquin Castle this very day.

  “Could be angels, or even our Lord and Savior Jesus in disguise,” Eloise chimed in, not believing it. Not this time anyway.

  Eloise and her mother, Lady Aine, concluded the details of the evening’s feast with the head cook. A banquet, unplanned and spontaneous, required all workers to task: more bread to bake, soup to be stretched.

  “Blessed be you delivered the old hart, Maid,” Muireann said, jerking an elbow towards the workers about her. Eloise saw haunches on the spit and stripped bones being dropped into the roiling cauldrons. Muireann with cleaver in hand, continued mincing the toughest cuts. “For surely it saves us that mutton for the next emergency.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Aine said, casting a reproachful green-eyed gaze at Eloise. As always, her mother was grievously displeased by the early morning hunt.

  “I wasn’t alone,” Eloise added, trying again to reassure her. She was far safer astride her Garth, Beast and Dragon at her side riding in the unconquerable beauty of Dahlquin than in any estate or village she could imagine. “Oh, splendid day with sun, and now we’ve guests,” she said, unable to suppress her smile.

  “Enough,” Aine said sternly, handing a leather-bound ledger to Eloise. “By your will, finish the accounting.”

  “Where is the Seanascal? It’s his job to manage,” Eloise whined, more petulantly than her usual seventeen-year old self. A tedious task when they had unexpected guests to dress for, and she with a beautiful new surcoat to wear. She frowned, remembering the unfinished surcoat. More drudgery…to redo that impossible front seam, and add the trim, and see to the hems.

  “The Seanascal is with your Lord Father, interrogating the seven strangers, not guests”, her mother emphasized. “We need an accounting of all supplies used and remaining. And, since you need reminding,” her mother added, “it is foremost your duty as the daughter of Dahlquin to manage than his.”

  Eloise sighed. Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow? Guests were a special treat at Dahlquin, a remote castle in western Connacht that guarded the frontier. Good Christian knights were a rare commodity compared with the merchants, jongleurs or unscrupulous raiders: a time to hear news, gossip and tales. Songs, dances, or games might be shared, and the people of Dahlquin could send word of the events in their lives to the other estates of Ireland and beyond.

  “Very good, Muireann,” Aine said to the cook. “I’ll leave you to it.” She turned to her daughter. “Eloise, finish tabulating the barley, onions, flour and suet used then meet me in the garden, unless you prefer to spin.” As Aine exited the kitchen, her long, blonde braid hung regally, barely moving although she walked quickly. Even wearing a simple surcoat and apron for gardening, her mother looked like a queen.

  “I’ll finish and meet you in the herb garden, Mathair,” Eloise agreed.

  Some of the workers giggled. Few things displeased the Maid of Dahlquin more than spinning thread at her distaff.

  “Back to work!” Muireann ordered her assistants. “It’s a feast we’ve to prepare and all the more labor for us. Seven hungry strangers, from the north.”

  Eloise sulked in a corner, bent over the musty ledger.

  “Mind your Lady Mother, princess,” Muireann said addressing Eloise with the title of esteem and endearment. “Don’t dawdle lest we both suffer.”

  The gossip throughout the female ranks of Dahlquin Castle concerned the tall, handsome, mysterious, noble, courageous, gentle knights from afar. The wild imaginings and exaggerations of the evening to come had the womenfolk, old, young, highborn or low, carrying on.

  In the kitchens just such a group of workers assembled. Save for the middle of the night, the kitchens were always busy. Dahlquin was a large estate and three meals a day were to be provided. The great hearths smoked and belched, cauldrons simmered and sputtered. Children kept the fuel coming and swept the embers and ash. Quick moving terriers were underfoot and the occasional cat made her way stealthily through the shelves, each chasing the opportunistic vermin or snatching the scraps that might fall to the floor.

  “Oh, these strangers,” said the second cook. “I saw ‘em ride in. Tall as trees, straight in the saddles. I could feel the presence of God upon ‘em. Father, bless me,” she stated, dropping her eyes and crossing herself.

  “Oh, I sorely disagree,” a kitchen helper said. “They be trouble, I smell it,” and she spat into a corner.

  “I hear the stable boy say one of ‘em is too pretty to be a man, what with his big brown eyes and fine features,” said another dreamily. Quietly, Eloise took all this in listening from her corner, ledger forgotten.

  “Pretty is they?” the kitchen helper chimed in. “Trouble comes from a pretty man.”

  “Hard to please a man when he is prettier than you,” Muireann added.

  “And you’d know about that, would you now?”

  “Me? I know a cooking woman is always beautiful,” Muireann said proudly.

  “Oh, spirits mock you, covered in flour up to your elbows, and your skirts tied above the knees as you lean over the boards,” hooted the second cook. All the women laughed with her.

  “Exactly,” Muireann clucked.

  “She speaks truth. Stuffing his face with a free hand while stuffing the cook with his cock,” snorted the assistant. The room howled with laughter.

  “I’ve sharp knives he
re, Finnouala, watch yourself!” Muireann teased. Her words sounded menacing, but her voice and expression were mild. Like the woman herself, Muireann’s attire bespoke durability, practicality and pride. The brown, homespun gown, well-worn from years of use, was meticulously mended. Her apron, too, was patched, reinforced, and washed more often than some people Eloise knew. Aine and Eloise made a new apron for Muireann some two years past. A beautiful thing it was, absorbent and quilted. Muireann wore it only on high feast days when the workers ate in the Great Hall.

  “Muireann,” called a familiar voice, “up to your old tricks again?” It was Sean, assisting the children bringing peat for the hearth. “I always love working the kitchens. Women and wine.”

  Several workers acknowledged him through the din of chopping leeks, sizzling fat or the barking of orders.

  Sean was an elderly man, married to Eloise’s nurse, one of the few people around to remember the kitchens before Muireann.

  “Greetings, my Maid Princess,” he said tipping his head to Eloise. “You’re getting an earful this morning.”

  Eloise smiled. Her cheeks still felt flushed with merriment.

  “Mercy, child,” Muireann called, “you still here? Off with you.”

  “I’m not a child,” Eloise said indignantly. “I’ve seventeen years.”

  “You’re a child until you’re married.”

  “And if I never marry?”

  “She refuses to spin and wed,” someone muttered.

  “Or bed,” added another.

  Eloise turned her head, seeking the speakers of such rude folly. Seventeen was considered by many to be old for a first-time bride. As she scanned the faces staring at her, she saw a smirk, a tear but primarily incredulity. The heir to Dahlquin, not marry? How absurd. All ladies were to run a household and bear children. Anger and shame pressed upon her. Her chest felt constricted, with the familiar heartache of disappointment. Feeling the weight of an imagined yoke upon her shoulders and shackles of a forced master upon her wrists, Eloise bristled and shook out her arms and hands, standing erect against the penetrating stares.