Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  Talah paced before the fire with one hand on her waist and the other fondling a piece of pillar stone worn as a reminder of the trials and teachings she endured not so long ago from the woman whose blood and thunderbolt flowed through her own veins. Tlachtga had not weakened in her powers. How was it then, the Lady of the Land had? Talah decided it was best to handle the affairs at hand before inquiring into the land’s sudden illness.

  Moya stepped up to her and whispered, “We may be able to ask the aid of a nearby Marcher Lord.”

  “No time. These warlords in South Wales prattle on too much about seeking council and all. The whole abbey and hamlet would be burned to the ground before they even lifted an eyelid. No, we’ve got to do this on our own.”

  “We don’t have all our people, and there’s no time to gather us. What are we to do if indeed there are as many soldiers as Brodie says?”

  “What route are they taking, Brodie?” Talah asked as he stuffed his cheeks hungrily with deer meat.

  Brodie swallowed hard and sipped on his refill of brew. “They were headed toward the river near Penwyth.”

  Talah turned to Moya in confidence. She knew the land well. “Is there a faster way to Wickshire?”

  “Aye,” Moya replied after a thought. “If we cut across the marshes at Bourne we might get ahead of them by two hours.” Moya squinted a questioning eye at Ban Talah. “Just what are you thinking, Talah?”

  Talah grinned back sadistically. “I’m thinking the villagers will need some company for breakfast.”

  THE CARDINAL’S FORCES made their way through snow-encrusted wheat fields, pastures, and stockyards before they came upon the buildings and houses lying still before them. There was no sign of life. The hamlet seemed deserted save a lone figure that stood in the middle of the street, outside the abbey. Grey robes whipped about legs and licked against black boots. The aged face of the abbot was flushed from the chill winds. His stern but humbled features had a weathered frown of distaste at the approach of the king’s standard. The captain of the guard held a hand up to halt his men before the abbot.

  “Open your doors, priest,” demanded the captain. “We have come to interrogate, in the name of the Holy Roman Church, your citizens, which have apparently hidden themselves behind your robes.”

  The abbot stood tall and raised his chin high in defiance. “All have come before me to claim sanctuary. And in the name of the Holy Roman Church, they are no longer your concern.”

  Ban Talah stood near the abbot, concealed around the corner of the building, eyeing the soldiers and searching for any signs of a carriage.

  The captain sneered with contempt. “You waste my time and test my patience, priest. Now open those doors!”

  “It is by Church law that I—”

  “Here is Church law!” the captain interrupted, throwing a hand to the carriage behind him.

  Talah stood with peering eyes leveled at the carriage that came past horse and rider. The standards that flew high were recognizable as that of King Henry’s. The carriage was adorned with investitures of the Roman Church. She then heard the captain order a rider to charge the abbot.

  Swiftly, Talah dashed from behind the corner and outran the gallop of the soldier’s horse. They both neared the abbot, standing tall and unwavering. Talah dove and tackled the priest, narrowly avoiding the trampling hooves.

  “Now!” Talah cried to the abbey’s closed doors.

  All at once, the great oak and iron doors of the abbey swung open and released a mass of warriors and villagers, wielding swords and axes, pitchforks and stones. They startled the rider’s horse so it bucked him off to roll down the abbey steps. Talah could only watch as the maddened crowd trampled him to death.

  Talah pulled the abbot to his feet and pressed him against a wall. “Stay here,” she ordered.

  The king’s men scattered. Some stayed to fight, others recognized Ban Talah and fled back through the village, taking the carriage with them. Talah was quick to the chase and ran on foot until Lugh showed himself beside her.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, winded.

  Lugh ran ahead as Talah bolted up an embankment and jumped into the saddle. Past buildings and under tree limbs, over fences and around the fountain in the square, Talah raced Lugh to head off the carriage driver. Halting before a tavern sign Talah met Moya and another warrior as they were rounding the corner.

  “Where did it go?” asked Moya as she twisted around.

  Talah eyed the trodden mud and thin carpet of snow for signs. No wheel tracks were to be found. It was then the other warrior spotted the carriage escaping through a nearby merchant’s district.

  “There!” he shouted.

  Off they dashed, pursuing the carriage as fast as their horses could carry them.

  “Split up!” Talah ordered.

  The carriage driver looked over his shoulder just as one of Talah’s warriors on the roof of a nearby building shot an escort off his saddle with a bow. A warrior armed with a crossbow appeared in the street before the carriage, causing the driver to panic and pull hard on the reins. The horses strained to halt the carriage quickly, with wheels and hooves sliding in the mud. The remaining escorts drew their blades and protected the rear of the vehicle as Moya and another came upon them, clashing steel.

  From over a merchant’s tall stack of baskets, the mighty black muscles of Lugh leapt, carrying Ban Talah to land beside the driver, sword drawn to the trembling man’s torso.

  “Step down,” Talah ordered.

  The driver acknowledged her with a simpering riff of excuses, which Talah disregarded, assisting his descent. Talah sheathed her blade and jumped off Lugh. She approached the carriage door and pulled a dagger from her waist. She tore open the wooden door, grabbed the robed figure, and tossed him brutally into the cold mud. The man shook uncontrollably and whimpered, hiding his face from her as she pressed a knee into his chest and held gleaming steel over him.

  “I don’t want to die!” he exclaimed.

  Something wrenched in Talah’s gut and made her stop. Batting away his trembling hands she clenched hold of his jaw and forced him to look at her squarely. His eyes, she thought. I must see his eyes! Glaring into his yellowed, aged eyes of brown it was then she knew. Talah released the man’s jaw and lowered her dagger.

  Reproachably, she said, “You are not the man I seek.” She pulled herself to stand and stepped away from his fetus-like position. “You are free to go. Forgive me.” She ran her fingers through her black hair and closed her eyes a moment to collect herself.

  Moya had snatched up a document from the carriage. “This cardinal is from Spain,” she said. “This is a summons from France, to meet in London.”

  Talah watched as a warrior assisted the startled cardinal to his feet. She noticed a ring on his finger and reached for a closer look. The man flinched again as if she were going to swipe at him. Gently, she spoke. “You are far from your destination, your Holiness. Next time, it would be safer for you to insist on sailing to a closer port, and not with mercenaries to guide you.” Mounting Lugh, Talah tucked the dagger back under her belt and sucked in a fresh lungful of air. Motioning to the driver, she said, “You, help him get the cardinal back into his carriage.” Turning to Moya, she added, “Release those men.”

  “Release them?”

  “I have no quarrels with this man.” Looking to the escorts, Talah ordered, “Either take this cardinal back to where you found him or move on to London. But if you come this way again, I swear by God’s hand I shall have your throats cut.”

  Talah signaled the warrior ahead to lower her crossbow and let the carriage pass. Moya made certain the escorts departed without their weapons. Watching all leave quietly, she halted her horse beside Talah and grimaced with a lack of understanding.

  “We came all this way for what?”

  The feeling of agony did not leave Talah’s soul. Such a defeat did not resurrect for her a hope of being any closer to the truth. “We did not come he
re for senseless bloodletting. They were most assuredly sent here by ill fated lies spoken from the twisted serpent tongue of the sorcerer-Cardinal. By his hand or another’s he wishes suffering of all England. Many were meant to be slaughtered this day to insult our honor so that our blasphemies can be carried on the sweaty faces of hollow bishop souls, and breathe to Rome their righteous death warrants of the heathen and traitor knights of this good country. A shadow we are damned to be, we Celtic-Christians, if Rome has its way. As one who leaves death in living waters and withdraws, so this Cardinal and his craft are in wait to consume the very breath of the Church.”

  “England will not allow us to be caught up in his talons, will it?”

  “The laws of any nation are a two-edged sword. We are not to rely on the edicts of England wholly.” Talah turned Lugh about and added, “Release the rest of the king’s men. Make certain they are stripped of their weapons then take who you need to escort them out of town.”

  Moya shook her head. “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out.”

  Moya drew the reins to her and turned away from Talah, departing with the other warriors and leaving Talah to rest with the comment. To Talah, figuring herself out had been quite a task these past months.

  “To think,” she mused aloud. “I was actually well content in exile for those six years.”

  Remarkably, all of the king’s men had been disarmed with little injury and few fatalities. The villagers did their part quite well defending their little abbey and hamlet, as Talah knew they could.

  She stood with the abbot on the ramparts of the abbey overlooking the procession of soldiers as they marched by sullenly. The abbot had decided to take their horses in penance for the grave disturbance they had caused. And so, departing on foot, ill-humored and confused, the king’s men headed onward, toward London.

  The sun by now had raised high above the tree line and its warm glow caressed Talah’s face lovingly. She drew in the crisp morning air as brisk breezes danced through her hair.

  “We owe much gratitude to you, Ban Talah,” the old abbot said.

  “I only hope everyone is left unharmed.”

  “Oh, no more than the usual bruises and scrapes,” he replied with a grin.

  Talah dropped her eyes. “My apologies.”

  The abbot squinted into the bright yellow sun and sniffed at the air. “Ah, spring. It’s coming, you know. We’ve only to pray, daughter, the land soon to heal. And there are many prayers.”

  “Aye. I’ve seen signs of such.”

  Candidly, he asked, “Do you really believe you’ve a chance against this beast, whatever it is, even with such a powerful ally as the Church?”

  “My heart knows no other choice but to believe so.”

  “You do understand, with this and other triumphs to defend Celtic Christianity, however honorable, there will come the chill of new decisions from Rome.”

  Talah looked into the abbot’s eyes. His too reflected the weight of concern she felt for the cause. After a moment, the abbot looked away to the last of the king’s men dissipating into the rising bank of fog on the moor. “Jesus, St. Brighid and Danu be with you, my child. I do hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  JUST AS THE abbot at Wickshire predicted, tidings came to King Henry from Rome via an informal meeting with Louis, the king of France. They met in Louis’s antechamber, which was decorated in typical French fashion. As with all the French nobility, the emphasis of décor was on comfort. Pillows with tassels lay around the chair in which King Louis sat with olive embroidered robes clinging loosely about him. His arms were outstretched and palms dangled over lions heads.

  He was getting on in years and slouching seemed to develop the familiar feeling of comfort with such a body. With seasoned limbs and aged flesh, Louis felt he was beyond the need to entertain his narcissistic intrigues before a gold-gilt mirror or reflecting pond. With noble elements to his prudence and a gift of discernment, Louis’s wisdom as a politician had taken France to the peak of its economy and kept Henry in check of his own growth. A history of mutually disagreeable relations kindled the slow churning ember that was kept alive throughout these many years. So it was, a tired and reserved affection was held out to Henry from a conceded eye.

  “Fig?” Louis asked. Henry paced around the spacious chamber in his usual dawdle as Louis sat lovingly enjoying the bowl of fruits held to him by a servant. Henry waved him off. “They were a gift from the pope. They really are quite delightful. It’s amazing how something so small, so insignificant, can be either predictably pleasant or painfully regretful.” He grimaced at the last and waved the servant away. “As to your Thomas Becket. He is a fine man and archbishop with well bred standards. You would do him well, Henry, to heed his testimonies. Do you really mean to keep him in exile?”

  Henry halted before Louis and glared impatiently. “I mean to drag him from under your wing and have him return to England.”

  “Imprisoned?”

  “If need be.”

  “Henry. You amuse me so. How is the poor man to choose between the devil’s pot and the devil’s mistress?”

  “Oh, so now I’m the devil?”

  “All rulers of their kingdoms hold a mirrored scepter, Henry. On one side is the standard of fairness and judgment of God. On the other, the compliances and trickery of greed and power. We must be both. Why else rule? The pope has sought council with your Becket. Mark my word, he shall be forgiven of all wrongdoings.” After a pause, he continued. “But there is another matter concerning a woman in your England by the name of Ban Talah.”

  “She, next to Becket, was my most loyal subject. Pity she too is turning against me,” Henry replied.

  “I don’t believe you mean that. As I am to understand those mystics swear allegiance to their king until their last dying breath. A valuable fortune such a person would be. The only pity I have is that France doesn’t have more of them.” Louis pulled himself to his feet and paced over to the window. “This Ban Talah is quite a clever woman, isn’t she?”

  “Ban Talah was an effective warlord to my victories, not too many years ago. Her tactics are impeccable.”

  “Extremely well educated, too, I’m to understand. This woman speaks five languages besides her own Gaelic. She is physically apt to diminish any foe, well read on Hun, Roman generals, Greek, and Gaul field strategies, and a soothsayer to boot.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  Louis looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Do my old senses deceive me or do I detect you are as fond of her as you once were Becket...if not fonder?”

  Henry nodded. “The two are quite alike, aren’t they?”

  Louis agreed. “These Celtic-Christians have a spirit of their own. I do believe your problems compound in similarities.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Henry laughed at the irony of it all. “Besides the Saxon Becket, and you on occasion, consistency is another one of my father’s troublesome inheritances of the throne.”

  Louis stood near Henry with hands clasped behind him. “A word Henry. I should not be too quick to judge this woman, if I were you. This anti-pope is merely concerned with old hat edicts. Deviations, he calls them, from the Church.” With tongue-in-cheek, Louis added, “I hated to tell the old boy, but my interests lean less and less to the Roman church, anymore. I happen to find the Cathars interesting.”

  “You’re not serious,” growled Henry. “My God man, would you stop at nothing to continue this division of states?”

  “For God sakes Henry, keep a sensible head about you,” Louis snapped back. “It’s not such a mortal danger letting people play with their own souls. Whether Cathars or otherwise, they certainly have the right to choose. It seems to have caught on well. Do you really think God is going to turn away all those Jews and Muslims after everything that Moses and Abraham did for their nations?” Louis approached the idea carefully noting Henry’s distasteful scowl. “However, we’re getting off the point of the matter. Aren’t we?”


  Henry stopped pacing long enough to glare at Louis. “Yes. I would appreciate if we could get on with it. I have council with my bishops and visiting cardinals in the pursuant week over this very torrid subject. Tell me why it is that you are so interested in my country’s outlaws.”

  “For precisely this reason,” Louis reasoned. “Rome has ordered the arrests of those heretics taking refuge in my France. I’m still deciding as to whether or not I should comply. A stiff price has been murmured under the table at the capture of Ban Talah, should she reach France. So, I ask you to take heed before this little farce reaches the shores of England. In that if you so wish your loyal, gallant woman you named an outlaw to remain a part of your egotistical trophies, then I urge you to make up your mind as to what side of the chess board you’re going to play on.”

  “My honor—”

  “Your honor Ban Talah has upheld better than you have your own trousers.”

  Henry snuffed. “Damn my soul! After all these years, you’re still spiteful I took Eleanor from you.”

  “Let’s just keep to the subject, shall we, Henry?”

  Henry quickly shrugged it off and began to pace again. “The

  Church wants nothing more than to stir up obviously false doctrine and corrupt sacraments befitting the clergy’s attempt to rise above our secular domains,” Henry argued stiffly. “The condemnation of this Celtic sect as heretical is no more aimed discriminately than that of the other branched off sects of Christianity that continue to pop up. They shall all pass, as day to night, fading to fireside chats. And the name Ban Talah shall be forgotten.”

  “You never forgot her,” Louis remarked with raised eyebrow. Stepping over to his fruit bowl he continued in between bites on a fig. “Clearly, it seems this nasty business over Ban Talah is of a much more personal matter to someone in the Church. Someone with quite an influence, I might add. In fact, there’s a chance her still being alive poses a real threat. I must say, I don’t blame them really. I’ve lost many a good battle to that woman. And I must admit that if she did in fact come to France I would be tempted to make her my general, just to see you tremble.” Louis met Henry’s glower with a steady gaze and brought himself to stand startling close to Henry. He eyed his battle vest, embossed with the lion symbol. “A crucial point here, Henry,” Louis stated in a low voice. “That lion you wear stands for all England and its territories. You need this woman—because she is that lion.”