by A. L. Duncan
“No, Sire,” the both replied.
“Then leave me my presence of mind and remove yourselves hastily! I am not to be disturbed again.”
It was certain the king’s rantings had given his guards ill hearts. After a pause, they respectfully departed. Henry began to pace the marbled floor nervously flicking the sword tip about like a plaything.
“I would have resisted, refused this ridiculous edict from the Church to defend its definition of true Christianity had I known you were still alive, Talah.” Henry met her eyes. “Oh, yes. It is a thorn that has bled my heart incessantly. The absence of its rose has long dried the stem to bitterness. That day I lost my most valued treasures.” After a moment’s pause, Henry sighed, adding, “It is not such a stretch of the imagination to believe the mud from your grave graced my boots on occasion.”
“Grave?”
“A small spot of ground, really. There is a willow that grows near a brook with spray-flowers and a patch of thistles. I had best remembered you standing there once with my son. Teaching him in your ancient ways to see—what do you call them—faeries. That day I lost not only you but my eldest son as well, and England its chance for a proper heir. What was I to do? The only thing left to defend my honor was a pact with Rome, signed on parchment behind these pathetic stone walls, which have been my solitude.”
“Sire,” Talah implored. “What pact?”
“An understanding between the pope and me. If I would sign the edict, he would give to me the Pyrenees. It is simply a matter of Inquisition. Nothing more.”
“It is not the will of Pope Alexander to decree bloodshed in the name of Christianity.”
“I issued no such edict of bloodletting, woman,” Henry growled.
“Forgive me, Sire. But, the burden of your soul these six years has caused your eyes to blind you in ignorance. While Pope Alexander has been in exile, the anti-pope has become dangerous in his delegations under the assistance of a darker force. It is the liberties taken by those beyond reproach that have twisted the pope’s tongue.” Talah walked after him, pleading his attention as he stomped nearby a window. “Majesty, all of Britannia is in great danger. And you will fall as the greatest victim. A dark dragon, a sorcerer, has evoked this war from across the seas. And by the signing of that edict, your mercenaries are its talons. Hundreds, if not thousands, are already dead. Something tells me you have witnessed this yourself.”
Henry’s obstinacy firmly acknowledged the truth. “Wayne was with me that day. A dreaded stench arose from the courtyard, masking the beautiful scent of hyacinths.”
“It is this sorcerer who has twisted the edict. It is this man who has turned England against itself and wishes to destroy all Celts to lay silent the shards of wisdom that defend this kingdom from the clutches of his sorcery and lay waste to the land. Your majesty, this man wishes my people’s ruin—and your power. Babies are dying. There will not be another generation to uphold England. Let us not reproach one another. Turn your eyes into your own soul. You know I speak the truth. You have been betrayed.”
Henry lowered his defenses and dropped his head, eyes full of aged despair. He slumped upon his bed, defeated.
“A Judas,” he snuffed. “Lives are born out of seduction. My inheritance is nothing short than a fall from grace. It’s no wonder the Church has it in for me, really. Haven’t the Fates anything better to do, for God’s sake, than playfully pluck the ardor from my bones? The Church never liked my family, come to think of it. A dreaded and forsaken lot are we. Normandy reduced us to Rome’s baptismal waters. Embittered and poisoned are we all, to live a life of conformity of the masses. All pray and pity the fools.”
After a pause, Henry continued. “Yes, betrayal is indeed a taste to which I’ve grown accustomed. My dear Eleanor, the Queen, who sits in idle disgust of my existence, has betrayed me. We have creatures she calls sons, whose intelligence cannot enrapture the soul of a twig. Have a remedy for that, do you? A potion to find their minds? Such witless imbeciles. The greatest of all betrayal was God’s. To take the only son I’d have gladly given my entire Kingdom and life for. What am I to do?”
“Sire, they are only children,” replied Talah.
The king gathered himself with a huff and crossed the room to lean against the stone sill of a stained glass window. He opened the panes. “Perhaps, the cold sleet will wake me from this trial. You are here because the future can be read in your mystic ashes. Indeed, doubtless hundreds, thousands, have died from something beyond what my edicts and few knights can defend.”
“Regard of your rule has been replaced by bloodletting and disorder.”
“My hands are tied, Talah. What would you have me do? How can you still look upon your king, who has stemmed the tide against your people?”
“Whatever the king, I cannot abandon my sworn honor to protect. Disloyalty is not a cloak worn by the blood and spirit which I carry.”
He cast his eyes fully for the first time upon her gleaming figure, aglow with shined armor mantle and soft, feminine features. “There has never been true enmity between us,” he confessed. “Forgive me, Talah. Forgive me and help me to defend England. All of England.”
Henry watched as pain eased from her face. Talah lowered her head and breathed deeply.
“I need your talents, your strength, your thunder. Wield England in your grasp and speak your immortal tongue. Punish this sorcery to its own hell and bring back the tender blooms of spring. God knows how I hate the cold. Let the Church despise me, I’ll give you anything to conquer this...this demon.”
Finally, she said, “There is a way to save the king’s honor, a way for you to keep your indebtedness to the Church’s edict without the threat upon lives.” Her figure spread softly into a white light before it faded to nothingness, her words echoing about the chamber. “We will claim sanctuary.”
TOWER BELLS SOUNDED throughout the abbey calling all to prayer. Yet, there was one who did not join them on this day. Isadora traded in her habit for a leather vest and breechcloth. She propped her leather boot upon her bed and tied off the last of the laces. There was a quiet knock at the door and Abbess Marion entered, startled at first at the scant appearance of Isadora’s dress. Marion cleared her throat.
“I took the liberty of acquiring your horse from the stables,” she said, huskily.
Isadora stood and stepped over to her abbess with a smile. “Thank you.”
“I brought your cloak. Forgive me. I should have waited until you’re finished dressing.”
Isadora grinned in gentle reply, taking the brown tartan cloth. “I am finished.”
“Oh. I see.” She watched Isadora slip the cloak over her head. “You are going to be missed around here.”
Isadora placed the bundle of her habit in Marion’s arms as if it were a newborn baby. “I can only pray that I have brought honor to this cloth.”
Marion nodded. “You were the best sister in this abbey.”
Isadora snuffed. “You’re biased.”
Their eyes met in mutual brief sadness as Marion touched Isadora’s cheek. “I will miss you greatly.”
Isadora took Marion’s hand and held it to her chest. She stepped startling close to Marion’s brown eyes and then tenderly kissed her lips. “I shall return,” she whispered.
Footsteps clattered quickly down the corridor and came to a stop before Isadora’s room. A winded nun waved a hand back down the way she had come while she caught her breath.
“Sister Isadora,” the nun finally gasped. “Your horse...whew....your horse...well, we need your help.”
In the courtyard, nuns and monks alike were scattered in disarray from the black stallion’s erratic jumps and whinnies. Three sisters attempted to keep hold of the bridle while the steed kicked and tugged, flinging them about like dolls.
Isadora stared in disbelief at such a display when a monk and petite sister dashed up to her and Marion. The monk flayed his arm about in furious rage. “That beast kicked me in the behind!”
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Isadora patted him on his arm. “Your penance has been provided, Brother David.” She walked away from him and toward the stallion.
The short nun quickly followed Isadora. “Thank heaven you’re here. It was all we could do to get the saddle on the thing.”
Isadora stopped just before the horse and rested both hands on her hips. “Well, it has been a while since a saddle has been on him.”
The cool spring air rushed through a nearby Rowan tree. A white raven appeared from the abbey tower and lit down upon a branch, calling to Isadora her warrior name. Talah. This raven had been a close companion to her while at the abbey. She cocked an eye to the bird as it snipped off a sprig and dropped it down to her. Isadora smiled her thanks to the raven, snatching the sprig from the air.
“Release the horse,” she ordered, walking up to the wild-eyed beast.
The nuns released the bridles and stood back nervously eyeing the warrior and her horse. The black coat gleamed and shivered at the approach of its master. An ebony eye stared unblinking into Isadora’s steady gaze. A handsome beast, named after the warrior who led the Tuatha de Danann, the gods of light and goodness, Lugh was a gift to Isadora from her father.
A noble and loving man, he was also a great diplomat who was said to have received the stallion on a winning bet to survive one of Tlachtga’s great lightning bolts. Lugh shifted his weight as Isadora lifted a hand and placed it just above his nose, offering the sprig of Rowan to him in the other. Tasting the leaf, Lugh raised his nose to rest gently against her palm. Isadora softened her gaze and moved her hand up to his forehead, behind his ear, down his thick-coated neck, and onto his shoulder. She poured a tiny flask of anointing oil upon his forehead while blessing him in her Gaelic tongue.
“Be it thou a blessing of heaven and of earth, a blessing of sun and of moon, a blessing of light and wisdom, a blessing of valor and honor. Mary and Brighid shine down upon thee.”
Isadora spread the oil in a cross with her finger, then kissed Lugh’s nose. Gathering up the reins, she mounted him and turned him around to stand before the many onlookers astounded at the seemingly miraculous handling of her steed. The abbess was the first to speak.
“The brothers and sisters have found something they thought you should have on your journey,” she said, gesturing to the wrapped object in the arms of a sister.
Isadora met the meek nun halfway, puzzled at what this lengthy thing could be. The nun unwrapped the bundle carefully and revealed a long, polished sword. Isadora swooned to hold her beloved blade again. The heavy wooden handle had worn Ogham encryptions carved upon it, used for the purpose of divination she had acquired from her more youthful days. The encryptions had been etched by her own hand under the teachings of ancient heroes. Her fingers traveled up the cold, smooth blade to the hilt where it was twisted, symbolizing the sacred Spiral.
“Lisula. Delight of the eye. Where did you find it?” Isadora asked the group.
A monk stepped forward and humbly approached her. “It was I who retrieved Lisula from the king’s chamber.”
Isadora raised it from the wrapping and again felt the weight of steel. Tempered by the blood and steel of four hundred battles, hardened by a thousand courses of lightning, Lisula remained as enduring as the force of light from a star.
“Six years.” Isadora murmured.
“Many were afraid to touch it,” the brother continued. “For fear you were dead and thus it would cast an enchantment on any who would dare wield Lisula be they not Ban Talah. I knew better,” he added with a bright twinkle in his eye. “I knew the day would come when you would again hold Lisula in your grasp. Every night after mass when chores were finished, I pulled it from underneath my bed and polished it with prayers. I feel I know your blade now almost as well as you.”
Isadora smiled deeply into his kind eyes. “Perhaps better, hmm?”
Another sister stepped from the crowd offering Isadora a ball of wrapping. “We made you two days’ meals.”
“Thank you,” Isadora replied to the gracious brothers and sisters. Fitting her sword into its scabbard, she pulled Lugh a few steps back in order to view the entire abbey standing before her. “Remember this, all of you. From this day forward, you must claim sanctuary. This shall be your only protection.”
Saying this, Isadora turned to leave but paused to once again meet Marion’s eyes. Hesitating long enough to see a solemn nod, Isadora pointed Lugh toward the cliffside pass and rode out of sight. The rising dusts were the only reminder that an image had passed. The clergy dispersed, leaving Marion to stand alone, staring at the ridge above the abbey. Isadora halted at the ridge and turned long enough to spy Marion’s solitary figure standing in the courtyard far below. Isadora felt a pang of sorrow in her heart as Marion touched her lips. Briefly, their eyes met a last time as she silently said goodbye to the abbess who had graced the halls of her abbey and touched so many with her wisdom, kindness and love. Such a gentle woman ignited a spark in Isadora’s own soul she vowed swiftly to return to.
Chapter Two
THE MIGHTY STALLION Lugh carried Isadora over plains and fields heading ever north. It was good to finally feel the strength of his powerful stride over the hushed wisps of grasses again, and to hear the calming spirits of the air call through his massive mane. Isadora felt his happiness as she, too, embraced this freedom.
Isadora’s true sanctuary were the Highlands of Scotland. Over the hills and among the seclusion of rock and shore blew a wind, which spoke to her and stirred the spirits over swift seas. It was there, near the misty fog-laden reaches, that Isadora would stay. While there she was to prove her prowess before reclaiming her warrior name. For three weeks she would endure the disciplines of wisdom, the teachings of holy writ, and the training of warrior, seer, and healer. Her mentors were the elements of air, earth, water, and fire. Talah would meet them on the high mountain plateaus of the Isle of Skye.
The first teachers to meet her were from the element of Air. Spirit voices echoed from ancients past, those who had gone before her. Then, as visible warriors, the spirits of long ago stood before her and spoke to her their stories of conquests, of victories and defeats and wisdoms learned.
Boudicca, the warrior queen who led a revolt against Roman occupation in Britain; Scathach and Aoife, the fiercest and strongest of the warrior women and tutors of martial arts; and the great Cuchulainn, warrior hero who won many battles with his magical spear, Gae Bulg.
The element of Earth brought forth before Isadora the Old Woman of Beare, who was the oldest ancestor next to Eve. From her teachings Isadora was taught again the memory of the animals.
“Allow the eagle to show you focus, to strike the target with blade true. Be as graceful as the heron, to step carefully upon the stones that lie in the lake of life’s battles. Be as still as the hare to master concealment, invisibility, and stillness of spirit. Prowl as the wolf. Seek patience, lie in wait, and remain loyal to your cause. Follow the stag with endurance to carry yourself toward the shelter of humble nobility and personal truth, even with other burdens of iniquity about you.”
Through the element of Water, the Mistress of Inspiration, Ceridwen, led Isadora through a spring’s waterfall into a cave to be blessed by the Cauldrons of knowledge, wisdom, and rebirth.
“Water and fire dedicated this child Isadora to mortal life, yet blood sucked when an infant from the pricked finger of Tlachtga, Goddess of the Thunderbolt, she became sacred. It is to this life you search the waters for spirit lost, child named Isadora. Tell me the name of the spirit you seek.”
Isadora answered in reverence to the Mistress while upon her knees in the warm pools of the spectral-lit cave. “The spirit of Ban Talah.”
Ceridwen raised her arms and drew upon her incantation. “Water bless this form as wind on the sea, as the hawk on a cliff, as a tear from the sun, as the lake on a plain. Water bless this form as stone on a mountain and blade of a sword. Ban Talah return, this her spirit thunder be, encircle thee, encircle
thee.”
Walls of water rose before Isadora.
“Walk through these three walls of water,” instructed Ceridwen. “And thus the child of Isadora shall be again past, and the name Ban Talah forever more be cast.”
Isadora walked through the first wall and looked over her shoulder to see her child-self staying behind. Isadora glanced to Ceridwen’s coaxing nod before stepping through the second wall of water. Again, she looked over her shoulder. Separated from her was her own image in a nun’s habit. And as Isadora passed through the third wall of water she stood before the form of Ban Talah. As the image of Ban Talah stepped into her body the three walls of water enclosed upon themselves and encircled her swiftly as a nebulous whirlwind.
The whirlwind dissipated in a flash leaving the warrior Ban Talah kneeling before a pile of stones carved with holy symbols. Now, as Ban Talah, she stood. Sensing a presence, she turned about to look upon the figure of a woman most had only seen in visions. Ban Talah was birthed from her very womb. She was the Goddess Tlachtga. Heavenly song issued from her flowing robes and a delicate blue aura of soft electric fire in the eyes met Talah’s longing smile. Tlachtga’s misted figure drew near. Taking her daughter’s hand, Tlachtga drew a robed arm behind her gesturing toward a great pillar stone, high atop a ridge. No one had ever survived the knowledge of the pillar stone of Cnamchaill. Mortals who touched the pillar stone were killed by its power, their eyes blinded by its light, their ears deafened by its otherworldly song.
Talah approached the pillar stone uncertain of her outcome, yet knowing fully this was to be her final lesson and final element—Fire.
“Follow your destiny, my daughter,” Tlachtga announced. “For, the world has awaited this very moment.” As she spoke, the Goddess drew her palms together with eyes closed as if in prayer, then stretched her arms out wide.
The pillar stone cracked down its center and issued forth a blinding white light, which Talah attempted to shield from her eyes. After a frightened breath, she walked into its surrounding vortex of cosmic matter that raged like thunder and held her with a force never before felt by mortal blood. Suddenly, shards of lightning from every direction thrust into her being like metal spears. Anguish lacerated her very core. A deafening howl of a thousand cries shot through her every fiber.