Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  A finger rested upon Talah’s lips. Gwynir urged with hardened breath. “The gift from our queen is a faery’s wing. And there is only one way...”

  “No.” Talah shuttered at the thought, knowing full well her implication. Slowly, Talah shook her head, her limbs trembling with grief. “Why? Why did you do this?”

  Lips struggled to form the words, breath barely audible. “You...are my champion.”

  Talah swallowed hard and rolled her eyes to the heavens with exasperated breath. When again she met Gwynir’s eyes, they were lifeless and stark. The small hand fell away from her and dropped to the ground, the spirit in her no longer to flutter. Talah held her closely and rocked her in anguish. The body soon began to sparkle like fireflies and as it faded to nothingness, Talah felt a resurgence of energy within her own being. Even unto her own death it seemed Gwynir could save Talah from danger.

  Sitting back on her heels, Talah glanced down to find the shimmering translucence of a faery’s wing, and the Crane Bag Gwynir had worn about her. Drawing a deep breath, she reached down and opened the Bag’s flap. The wing melted to colorful dust motes and swarmed into the Bag, closing the flap behind itself.

  Talah stood and raised the bag strap over her head and snatched up her sword. The sound of hooves echoed loudly and Talah poised herself at the ready. The rider came upon her swiftly, and then pulled back hard on the reins stopping short of her strike.

  “Hold your strike!” the rider shouted.

  Many other horsemen and foot soldiers carried on past them at full sprint, chasing after the surprised Normans using crossbows, swords and bows in counterattack. Talah knew this horseman well.

  “Sidric.”

  Sidric FitzAlan was a Welsh warrior and Marcher lord of Snowdonia. Born of a Saxon warlord and Norse noblewoman, Sidric had become a fierce and respected leader among his followers. Sidric was broad shouldered and thick. His sandy brown mustache was grown long and braided, flowing well past his chin. Wavy locks of hair rippled down along his spine. A brooch clasped tightly onto a deep blue and yellow woolen cloak.

  The lord looked down upon the scowling woman before him and smiled brightly. “Well, Ban Talah. I see you again have mustered more than your full share of enemies, and in my neck of the forest, to boot!”

  She drew an evil eye to his jest. “Not to my favor, I assure you.”

  Sidric rested his palms against the saddle brim and stretched his massive back. Throwing a nod before him, he said, “Not to concern yourself. My men could use a bit of limbering up. We’ll take these English bastards off your hands, if there are no objections, of course?”

  Talah relaxed her stance and politely waved her sword in the general direction, assuring him leave.

  From the shadowy reaches trudged a stalwart figure not to be mistaken for any other.

  “By thunder, Fergus MacConnell!” shouted Sidric.

  “Aye,” Mac panted.

  Mac was tarnished by dirt and blood, with sweat riddling his bangs and soaking his whiskers. An arrow had found its mark to lodge deeply into his left shoulder, of which he had broken off to where only a small portion remained. Despite his weariness, Mac was zealous.

  “I left you a few,” Mac boasted.

  Sidric replied with a hardy laugh. “Try harder next time to find an occupation more suited to carry your bones, old man.”

  Talah pressed a hand near the wound. Mac grimaced at her concern and pushed her off with a gruff. “Ahh, it’s just a scratch.”

  Sidric asked, “Is that your ship my scouts spotted off the western shore?”

  Talah nodded. “Aye. We need to be getting back.”

  “I’ll have escorts accompany you back to the shore. It’s a longer way, but less treacherous.”

  Horsemen approached their lord from the side and saluted. “My Lord,” said one. “Our numbers have what English are alive in retreat.”

  “Call back your men. Let the cowards return word to whomever sent them.”

  The horsemen saluted and departed.

  Seeing Moya, Danann and Brodie come upon them, Talah eyed Sidric’s welcoming smile. “We are grateful for your assistance, my Lord.”

  “Nonsense,” Sidric replied. “If at all, it is Snowdonia who should be grateful to you, Ban Talah, for destroying the enchantment upon this land—the white dragon.”

  Talah frowned and sheathed her sword. “That was only a part of it. The enchantment is more encompassing than a three-headed dragon.”

  “Is this the doing of England’s King Henry?”

  “It is something much greater than any king.”

  Sidric frowned at the thought. “And what is the provocation of such a gauntlet, that every march, every kingdom should feel the punishment of this sorcerer’s wrath?”

  “Whatever it is, those of us that share the same Celtic ancestry, as well as all common kingdoms, must come together and unite eagerly to strengthen an alliance against this sorcery so that all may recover wholly.”

  Sidric sat back in his saddle and pensively eyed Talah, laughing while stroking his lengthy mustache. “Have you come to negotiate?”

  Talah mounted a pale gray steed offered her by a horseman. Riding close by Sidric she met his gaze. “It’s an offer.” Talah looked over her shoulder to make certain her companions were each in a saddle then shook Sidric’s outstretched arm.

  “Good journey to you, Ban Talah,” he said.

  She smiled in reply then spurred her horse on to disappear into the darkening thickets. Clearly, in the wake of such a plague of unyielding wizardry, the Welsh Lord was left with an intoxicating temptation. Such a revered Scot as Ban Talah knew full well her druidic influence in the many clans and kingdoms, both Welsh and English. She was truly a provocative declaration of reason to an arousal of arms, if there ever was one.

  Chapter Seven

  IN CANTERBURY, KING Henry had crossed the waters to hold council with his bishops. Henry was secure in his opposition of church authority and its dealings with the Celtic community.

  “Rome’s power cannot permit the division of authority into such separate spheres,” said the Bishop of London, “may it be spiritual or mundane. The impiousness of such a practice within the church cannot exist. The Papal judicial system has heard the case of this warrior-woman in the Pope’s name and has invoked the questions of legitimacy. For such, the enforcement this doctrine relies on is your kingship’s moral cooperation.”

  Henry sat slouched on his stiff, wooden chair with his head resting on his hand ever so unenthusiastically. He felt humored at the idea of such foregone conclusions. “And whose morals am I cooperating with? The Church’s, with a golden coin in your pockets, the head of Frederick stamped on it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” the bishop spat with a reproving scowl.

  “Beg, gentlemen, for forgiveness of God! That man, deranged and soiled of spirit, hailing himself as the new Caesar, has morals no better than an ass that lies in his own dung!”

  “How dare you—”

  “How dare you,” Henry countered, launching himself to his feet. “to stand before me and dictate a disregard of my administration of this kingdom?”

  The bishop stood before the others, fists clenched in vexation and shouted above the many raging voices. “It is to this hitherto unchallenged authority in these lands that be questioned by the pope—”

  “Anti-pope,” Henry roared his intrusion.

  “Which shall herald an uncompromising excommunication of your majesty should you not choose to cooperate!”

  The king let the silence weigh on everyone’s thoughts and stared mercilessly at the host of robes aligned in front of his defiant figure before replying under his breath. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Another bishop had issued from the assembly and stepped forward, reserved in perfect temperament. “By thine own judgment, majesty, or by thine own writs can we accomplish our task.”

  “And just what particular writs do you twist about for your own pleasure?”
<
br />   The Bishop of London answered with stern resolve. “Writs to deal with the issue thus raised sending justices from your court about any shire, to hear and settle any issue in your name. Is this not your law, King Henry?”

  Henry felt his heart in his throat, sickened at the ruthless extent these so-called holy men would go to. Jaws tightened, his breath taken, Henry staggered back a step.

  “Writs told your sheriffs to swear juries of men from localities that would testify and be brought before your justices to establish their testimonies. Is this not your own law?”

  Henry felt helpless. Staring blankly into the crowd of robes, he fell back into his seat and turned his hateful eyes away, leaning a heavy chin against his hand. Henry’s chamberlain, Lord Dudley, Earl of Bristol, bent his head down to his troubled king.

  “Excellency, the whole of England depends on this one execution of judgment. Forgive me, Sire. But, she is only a woman.”

  “Such a woman not to be taken lightly,” the king dismissed.

  To which, the bishop replied, “The whole of Troy fell to the ways of one woman.”

  THE FLEUR DE Lyon had sailed past Newport and onward to Hastings. Cold rain and icy winds kept nearly all on board below deck except for the few hands keeping the rigging taut. The sea’s spillage dashed against the hull and high over the bow, washing overboard anything not tied down to be carried away. Below deck, Talah stared out the window in Juetta’s quarters, eyeing with curiosity the almost horizontal rains.

  Juetta pressed herself eagerly against Talah’s side, with a playful grin about her. “You’ve spoken not three words since your return, my love. Is there something which troubles you? Something I can perhaps alleviate?”

  A probing hand slid up Talah’s torso and tugged at the strings on her vest. This same touch from a certain queen had left searing shivers upon her heated skin. A queen whose kiss moved Talah’s blood to raging abandon, a queen much like her beloved Marion.

  This touch of Juetta’s, however, disturbed her senses. It was disconcerting. The touch felt more like a dull file that scrapped harshly against the grain. Such brought her a feeling of unease. Talah stiffened and stepped away.

  “Something distracts you,” Juetta murmured.

  Talah paid Juetta’s concern no heed and kept to herself. She pulled off the vest and slipped on a long-sleeved blue shirt. The shirt was a gift to her from Sidric. She felt packing her vest in the Crane Bag would shake the overwhelming gnawing at her senses by the twist of apprehension pressing her to question the woman she thought she knew so well.

  “Forgive me, Juetta,” Talah replied without looking into her eyes. “I must make certain my companions are gathered and prepared to port soon.” Feeling Juetta’s sincere despair she turned to her, held her arms, and kissed her forehead. “I am weary.” She pulled away to the clank of a door latch. The ship pitched harshly causing Danann to stagger back against the open door. She eyed Juetta warily before nodding to Talah.

  “Mac’s being his old mule self,” said Danann. “He asks for you.”

  Stepping aside, Talah felt Juetta’s grip stay her. Again, she met her eyes, eyes of searching and disquiet, urging Talah not to go.

  “I must go to him.” Talah pulled herself away and departed, indifferent to the icy leer she felt soaking into her back.

  Talah and Danann were tossed against the hull of the corridor again and again as they attempted to keep footing. Once in the stall area, Talah approached the blacksmith who kept busy chasing hot coals falling onto the planks from the open hearth box. Pulling a fiery rod from the coals, she held it before the frightened little man.

  “I’ll be right back,” she insisted.

  Nervously, he nodded and squirmed. After she passed him, the man mumbled and anxiously stomped out a burning plank as he continued to pick up tumbling coals.

  Before leaving Snowdonia, Sidric’s men had held Mac down and pulled the arrow from his shoulder. Since then only a wrap had sustained the wound, still open. Mac agreed for Talah to close the wound only if he be properly prepared. He had a tendency to become as violent as a mad boar when pained. To keep him from injuring himself further, or anyone else for that matter, Mac’s arms were tied securely behind a post beam. Talah bent down to his glare.

  “You know I’m letting you do this only because you owe me one, aye lass?”

  Talah smiled. “I know.” Pulling her dagger from her belt she tucked it between his teeth and stood up with the hot tip poised, eyeing the sweat pouring from his brow. “Now, this is going to hurt.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Moya joked.

  An inhuman howl raged throughout the lower decks startling the horses and the blacksmith. The sizzling iron branded the wound aflame to seam shut just as Talah’s had. The reddened, scorched scar was evidence of a good seal. Mac’s eyes fluttered as he fought semiconsciousness amid heavy breathing and growling.

  Talah handed the iron over to Moya. Talah squat down and watched her friend attentively. Finally, she pulled at the dagger clenched tightly by his pained jaw. “Mac, it’s over. It’s alright,” she empathized. “Let go of the blade.”

  With the dagger finally released from his grip Talah leaned behind him and cut the ropes. Arms free, he raised a hand and pulled her back down to meet his laborious stare.

  “Not easy to inflict pain on others you love, is it?”

  She dropped eye contact and tightened her jaw. His persuasive grip tugged at her arm once more, gently. A weak grin crossed his face. “You did well, lass. You didn’t hesitate. You did well.”

  Talah returned the smile and placed a hand on his. Directing her attention to Moya she said, “Put a light bandage on him. That should do him well enough till we get to shore.”

  Shortly thereafter, Talah climbed above deck. Captain Deconus cried out commands to crew around a fallen sail as he clung onto the railing. “Tie it down! Tie it down!”

  Talah grabbed hold of his arm, shouting, “We’ve changed direction. Why have we changed direction?”

  Deconus twisted about and glowered to the oars below, stationary in their movement except for the sea’s battering. Enraged, Deconus pushed himself to stagger across the deck and plunge down the stairway, cursing under his breath. Talah followed.

  On through the darkened descent they made their way, their cold, rain-soaked clothing dripping with every step. Once at the galley, it was a sight to make any captain’s skin crawl with inconceivable eeriness. He stood there, shivering and mouth agape to the emptiness before him. Only the harrowing sound of unmanned oars creaking against the hull of the craft answered to his presence.

  “Abandoned,” he gasped.

  By this, Talah knew his fear was genuine. A chill ran over her flesh. She knew this was more of the Cardinal’s treachery and dark enchantment.

  The waves had pushed the ship closer to shore and too near the rocks. With one more massive wave the ship was heaved against a jagged face. The Fleur de Lyon was splintered with oars demolished and water rushing into its lower level. All on board were tossed against the hull violently.

  Talah left the captain and raced up to the other level of the ship in time to pull Danann to her feet as they heard the blacksmith’s cries.

  “We’re hit! We’re hit!” screeched the blacksmith. “She’s going down! We’re all going to die, we’re going to die!”

  “Release the horses,” shouted Talah quickly. “Get everyone on deck!”

  Danann reached out to Talah. “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “I’ll meet you. Just go! Go!”

  Talah sprinted down the passageway as best she could with the ship still swaying in the current and being carried inland. Once to Juetta’s quarters she found the door jammed and had to kick it in. Before her, Deconus stood limply, impaled by a splintered floorboard, his arms and head drawn back, dangling as the ship rocked. Talah quickly eyed the room for any sign of Juetta. She was gone. Staggering near Deconus she grabbed hold of his collar and pulled his h
ead slightly forward. To her shock he was still alive. Heavy eyelids opened as he stared back at her.

  Choking on his words he whispered, “Forsaken...she has forsaken us...”

  “Where is she?” asked Talah hastily. “Where is she?”

  “Eyes...”

  Deconus drifted, eyes fluttering closed. Talah shook him conscious. “Whose eyes?”

  “Horrible.” His lips struggled to form the last word before his final breath. “...black.”

  Talah shuddered as his head fell back. The fate was his, to be bound to the echo of despair and horror. Yet, the message was clearly hers to bear, and bear alone. Hauntingly familiar, this message. She held her breath and let the ship throw her hard against the wall. Black. Voices viciously swept over her:

  “Have you seen this man?” the Old Woman had asked her once.

  “Do not be blinded by that which appears a blessed memory,” Marion had said to her.

  Talah winced painfully at the thought. Snatching up her cloak she clenched her teeth and pushed herself out of the room. Once on deck, she could see the disastrous trouble they were in. The masts had broken in two and dense fog lay upon the water’s high churn and great, surrounding rocks. Everywhere she looked was ominous, jagged rock.

  Brodie shouted through the howling gusts. “There’s nobody else on board. Everyone’s gone. Vanished.”

  “Did you find the captain and Juetta?” Moya asked.

  “Aye, I found the captain. Skewered.”

  Moya asked, “And Juetta?”

  Talah turned away. “Juetta’s gone.”

  Moya grabbed Talah’s arm. “We have to find her.”

  Talah pushed her next to the railing. “She’s gone. Go! Move!”

  Mac had pushed all the horses except Lugh overboard when Talah had reached him. Rubbing the nervous steed’s nose she consoled him in the Gaelic tongue he was used to. “Go on. You can do it. You can make it. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Talah and Mac heaved the horse over and into the high seas. She knew they were risking certain death, but there was no other way. Another swelling wave heaved the great ship and cast it toward a massive jetty.