by A. L. Duncan
Mac pressed Brodie hard against a broken mast. “Hold on tight, lad. This could get real ugly.”
The last thing Talah could remember was witnessing the prow careen into the rock, disintegrating the deck, and the storm violently pitching all overboard into the raging tide’s undertow.
Hours passed before the storm subsided and calmed the waves to a volatile ebb. Thick clusters of stray clouds continued to drift when Talah regained consciousness, the clouds but shadows to her at first. She felt her skin pasty and chilled and knew she had lain upon shore and tide for some time. Lugh’s noble head reached down and nostrils sniffed for any sign of life. Talah weakly patted his nose in response to his nudge. She then felt him nibble at her cloak until a substantial amount of fabric was clenched tightly between his teeth before dragging her gradually out of the waters and onto a dryer part of beach. Talah fought the sluggishness and attempted to focus into the misted fog aligning the beach. She wondered if the human form she saw was real or a thing imagined. A gray, robed figure drifted, disappeared, and reappeared as it approached her. Finally, she felt comforted by her instincts, which spoke to her a feeling of relief. Talah’s world then dimmed before falling once again into unconsciousness.
THE HOT BATH water seemed to revive Talah’s cognizance, slowly at first. Then as murmurings and dark faces and eyes focused, she flinched with a start and bolted upright. The few nuns around her held her in the tub until she came to her senses. Candlelight flickered and soon was brought to focus.
Talah heard a heavy door creek open. A brother sheepishly walked in carrying an armful of folded woolen blankets. Gasping at the sight of a naked woman, he quickly raised the blankets to his face and hid his eyes. A sister tore the blankets from his trembling grasp and grimaced, shooing him out the door. Before the door closed, Talah was humored to see the man cross himself and mumble with hands cupped to his face. Such naïve chastity she’d not seen since Newcastle Abbey.
To that thought a sudden pang of sorrow arose, causing her to settle back into the hot water. Talah sullenly eyed the thick vapors of steam that rose up around her as the sisters tended to her hair and torso, sponging the hot water over cuts, bruises and aching limbs. The heat felt good and brought shivers down her spine.
“Were there others?” asked Talah. “Survivors?”
The sisters halted their tasks and stared at one another. Talah met hesitant eyes before an older sister drew near.
“How many were there?” asked the sister.
Talah knew that for whatever reason the crew of the Fleur de Lyon disappeared, and Juetta was simply to be counted among them.
Talah replied, “Four. Two women. Two men. Wait...there was a blacksmith.”
“A blacksmith?” The sister turned back to the others in confusion.
Talah raised a sore arm and held an open hand against her chest. “Short man. Gray hair, scraggly beard.” Seeing no response, she added, “He mumbled frequently.”
The sisters all melted in sighs, and nodded to one another in their murmurings. The older sister again drew near with a pious grin.
“They are all alive and safe.”
Talah closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. “Thank thee Nehalennia, protectress of travelers over the sea.”
“We found you slumped over your horse near the entrance of our gates, and your companions fitted with dry blankets. It seems God had sent a kind fisherman or traveler to look after you, my dear.”
Talah rested the back of her head on the tub rim and struggled to recall her last memory.
The older sister patted her on the arm then stood before her, unfolding a heavy linen. “Well, that’s enough talk for now. Let’s get you dried off and something in your stomach, shall we?”
Talah pulled herself to stand, stiff muscles taunt and gleaming with wetness. “Where are my things?”
“Sister Ruth took them.” Talah’s eyes followed her pointing finger across the chamber. Standing before a great fire, Sister Ruth had laid Talah’s clothes about.
“I shall make the fire beautiful so that they may dry soon,” chirped Sister Ruth.
The elder sister approached Talah with a folded habit. “I do hope this does not inconvenience you too much.”
Talah smiled at the significance of such a cloth. “Humility is never an inconvenience, Sister.”
TALAH LAY UPON a bed in a small room eating bread and cheese. She drank hot honey water by a candle’s warm glow and allowed the silence to carry her away, reflecting upon a not-so-distant memory.
Marion spoke to her then. “You are going to be very missed around here.”
Talah smiled at the memory. Yet, the pang of longing seeped into her being a sorrow that slowly pushed Marion’s smile as far away as the nearest star. Untouchable now, she mused darkly, her beloved’s voice a tender sentiment of what will never again be.
The door to her room opened slowly, drawing her back to the present. A sandaled foot with Celtic tattoos stepped inside and Talah raised her eyes and beamed with joy to the face that greeted her kindly.
“I knew it had to be you,” she said in low voice as he laid a finger to his lips.
Closing the door quietly behind him, the monk sat himself down on the bed beside her.
“Tidings?”
The monk removed his hood and nodded. A boyish grin complimented his dimpled but anciently wise features. Blonde hair was cut in the style of the day, with bangs leveled across an unassuming brow. “King Henry has sent an escort about every town and monastery in search of you.”
“Does he wish to execute me?” she asked nonchalantly, between chews of cheese.
“He seeks only to speak with you. I feel he is sincere in his need.” The monk pulled off his shoulder the Crane Bag he had carried in.
Talah sat up, pleasantly surprised at his retrieval of the bag. She accepted it from him graciously. “Fortune has blessed me again.”
“You may thank Lugh.”
Talah smiled. “He has been good to me.”
“And shall he, ‘till the end of your days.”
Talah barely pondered the thought. “Do they suspect you here?”
The monk shook his head. “I am not noticed.”
Talah bit at her cheek and squinted at his earnest features. “Will you stay here and care for the others till I return?”
“Aye.”
She swirled the hot water in her cup and pondered. “Then, I shall leave at dawn. Where may I find King Henry?”
“Canterbury.”
THUS TO CANTERBURY Ban Talah rode, and to the gates of the king’s castle she approached, hooded and unexpected. A gate watch sat upon the flagstone steps gorging on a large, dripping rib of beef before being shocked to attention at the tip of a sword. Lowering the sword, Talah pulled the hood back from her face, again startling the man with her familiar features. The man gasped as if he were before a ghost.
“The king wishes to see me.”
The gate watch escorted Talah through the straw-scattered floors of the palace, now and again glancing back to her, unnerved. The corridors were long and grim, sprinkled with dispersed sconce light. The only sound came from their boots scuffling up the twisted and narrow flight of stairs. The watchman tossed his rib bone to a pursuant and friendly greyhound, then opened the large oak door to the foreroom. Once within the room, he gestured and mumbled for Talah to wait while he departed for the king’s antechamber.
The foreroom was a large and vacant chamber, quite crude by French or Italian standards. Stone floors echoed the rough-hewn gray stone blocks of the castle’s walls. Standards of England, Scotland, Wales, and Normandy hung from the furrowed rafters. Much to Talah’s surprise, a large Celtic cross decorated the stonework around an expansive window.
Behind her, double doors opened and a chamber servant, dressed in a simple brown dress, motioned to her. Puzzled at the invitation she approached cautiously. The servant departed, closing the doors behind her.
The sitting room was as cozy as an
y room in a somber castle could be. A crackling fire in the hearth added the needed warmth with an efficient amount of light filtering into the room for anyone such as the queen to sit comfortably in her high-backed chair to engage in her knitting. Talah had stood still, behind yet a distance to the figure in the chair.
“Good to see you again, my dear Talah,” the queen said.
Talah grinned. She knew this to be a hint to face her queen, and so made her way before her. Talah bowed respectfully to Queen Eleanor’s grin. “Your majesty.”
Eleanor kept busily to her task and continued with a glance now and again to Talah. “Well, I see battles have improved you boldly. However, I suppose the only time a battle does not improve one is when one is dead.”
“Indeed, your majesty.”
The queen dropped her knitting and met Talah’s eyes. “Eleanor, please, Talah. We’re alone now.”
Eleanor of Aquitaine was older than Henry by ten years, at least. Yet, her eloquent features had not diminished a day to the title she wore as Queen of England. Demure was not a word in Eleanor’s vocabulary. Always one to speak her mind she held her diplomacy imperiously poised on the tip of a viper’s tongue. She was cunning, and she knew it. Confident, not conceited, she implied. Discipline and respect were always a treasure in present company.
Talah raised an eyebrow and turned toward the window. Hands clasped behind her, she eyed the square below as farmers pulled their various ox-drawn carts. Tomorrow would be Saturday, Market Day. Despite the cold, January-like weather suddenly upon them again, everyone seemed up in spirits. Of course, how could anyone not be happy to make a few shillings?
“Why have you been so long coming to us again?” Eleanor asked. “You know how bored I get when I can’t carry on an intelligent conversation. Did you receive my correspondence?”
Talah smiled at her. “Aye.”
“Did it surprise you I knew of your whereabouts?”
“Not at all. There is very little happening in the world that you don’t have your finger on, or lips to declare what is or is not missing from your court.”
“We have a mutual acquaintance, you and I, who kept me very well informed of your well being while at the abbey.”
“I was very surprised that you hadn’t informed His Majesty.”
Eleanor grinned. “We women are very good at keeping secrets.”
“How well I know,” Talah replied, thinking of Juetta.
“So, tell me, Talah. Why have you not come till now?”
“Politics, I suppose.”
“Certainly not having anything to do with that incident all those years ago?”
Talah winced at the recall. “The boy was my responsibility, after all, Eleanor.”
“For God’s sake, Talah. A child of a concubine is nothing but a bastard and never to wear a crown. You committed no crime in your defense except perhaps to diminish Henry’s ego, which to my opinion needs deflating a bit more often,” quipped Eleanor. “The issue of mortality is a strange thing, isn’t it? Even a woman of your standards should understand that there is little one can do with the changing of men’s minds on things of war and warlike things.
“Try not to be so hard on yourself, Talah. If you were to grieve for every soul you’ve attempted and failed to save you would have drowned years ago in remorse. You can’t save the world, my dear. God knows the world has tried to rid itself of you. You do have a tendency to keep popping up like a chestnut from a skillet. And much to my relief, I might add.”
Talah had turned around to lean against an armoire, listening to Eleanor with arms crossed over her chest.
“The world would do well to have a dozen more of you,” Eleanor continued. “If not, in fact, a whole nation. Women like you and I could lead this world, you know. We have the power to.”
Talah met the queen’s eyes pensively. “I don’t believe you would want to really.”
Eleanor shook her head and stood from her chair, laying aside her work. “No, not really, I suppose. It is one thing for a king to rule amid the usual canter of mistresses and concubines, and to much approval. It is indeed quite another for a ruling queen to live with talk of moral irregularity, as if my interests were some disease symptom.” The last, Eleanor raised an insinuating eyebrow. Stepping close to Talah, she added, “When I am in bed with another of soft skin and gentle curves, should I be ashamed to imagine it be you?”
Talah smiled at her queen kindly and cleared her throat.
Eleanor twisted about and paced with hands behind her. “We are not much different, you and I. Except, of course our ages; I could be your mother. The only difference between us is that you choose to rule by your sword and I by my sons.”
“But I do not wish to rule.”
At that, Eleanor clapped her hands before her, elated at a new revelation. “Oh, but my dear Talah, you already do! Why do you suppose so many ruling men of cynicism and unscrupulousness and less brilliancy are tossing their entire fortunes for your head? And yet, they deliver their manhood on a confessional platter as if you were the goddess they all needed to fight their battles? They seemed to have suffered an eclipse of wit those six years you were away. Now, here again you appear, the answer to all their prayers as well as a plague to their arrogant martyrdom. Ban Talah, the perfect woman all kingdoms love to hate, and hate to love. My God, you even have the pope on his knees!”
Talah laughed. “Too often kingdoms show off their half-barbaric gleam and slip from their laws of humane morality. Only the cruelty of indifference flatters their raised flags these days, I’m afraid.”
“Do you know Henry was prepared to build you a temple? Until I convinced him the enshrinement would only become his sentimental issuance regarding the purity of the female sex. The ghastly draping of robes over your firm breasts would resemble more an old woman’s rags than any a Greek goddess would have been impressed by. Not at all flattering to your honor, or to your race, I’m afraid.”
The queen sat back down and picked up her knitting. “Every man fears a woman in power. Since the time of Adam and Eve, the first time a woman shows her true superiority the man feels he must cut her down in order to think better of himself. The noble women of this era have learned the best way to rule a man is from behind the veil and beside the throne.” After a pause, Eleanor added, “I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if Christ had been a woman. And why should God be a man?”
“It is a prophecy of my people that Christ’s second coming will be as a woman and she shall come from the Isle of Iona, in Scotland.”
“Oh, how wickedly ironic—a Scot. Now there’s a good fistful of salt in Henry’s already open nerve.”
King Henry opened the door with force and stormed in. “What on earth is this ceaseless chatter that all women must engage themselves in?”
“Nothing except the usual prevalent rattle, my husband,” Eleanor quipped. “Simple and tasteful conversation. Nothing you could ever appreciate or understand.”
Ill-humored, Henry glared at the back of her chair before he raised an eye to Talah. “Such delicacies a warrior of my kingdom should never be caught dead nibbling on. Save it for your little afternoon tea parties, wife, while mastering your pitiless deceptions.”
“Well, what sense is there in fabricating ethical deceptions?”
“Save me from her a moment, will you?” Henry asked Talah.
Talah bowed to Henry’s grumble and departure. The queen gently pulled Talah down to her and murmured, “Keep that reputation of yours, my beloved warrior and you, yourself, may be that second coming—to your people and mine.”
THE KING LED Talah down the dim corridor to his bedchamber. “I do hope this doesn’t seem too offhand, but I haven’t yet shaven.” Henry pulled the matted, wool tunic over his head and flung it aside as a servant boy carried a pitcher of heated water from the fireside. The boy poured water over the king’s hands and into a basin. Henry splashed the water on his face and continued the conversation, waiting on the boy t
o work up a soapy lather in a bowl.
“You, my gentle Scot, have me in quite a spot. Never since Julius Caesar wanted the head of a Gaul leader has there been such a king’s ransom for anyone. Do you realize all of France and Italy are looking for you? And now it seems, to much of their twisted cruelty, all of my bishops in England have your name branded on the end of their devilish pitchforks.”
“Aye, my lord, I am quite aware.”
Henry smeared the soap along his jaw and suspiciously eyed the dagger given him. “Then why not save yourself, Talah? For God’s sake, go back to Scotland...a-h-h!” Henry nicked himself, drawing blood. Enraged, he faced the boy with tight grip about the blade. “Dammit, boy! When in God’s hell are you going to sharpen this impish thing correctly!” The servant was scared witless, stumbling backward to Henry’s advance. “Next time it cuts a throat it’ll be yours!”
Talah stopped Henry from chasing the boy out of the room. Pushing him into a chair she brandished the Old Woman’s dagger in her hand and held it close to Henry’s face.
“Allow me,” she said coolly.
With blade a breath from his face, Henry grabbed hold of her wrist.
“Have we settled our disputes?” Henry queried with apprehension.
Talah eyed him slyly and pulled his head back. Starting at his jaw she pulled the blade carefully up to the sideburn.
“Tell me,” he inquired. “Have you rid the land of this...disease?”
“The land is diseased because the Church is diseased.”
“Such an obvious imposition. What do you need, men, supplies?”
“I have my own. The less, the more inconspicuous.”
“Weapons?”
Talah smiled. “I have all the weapons I need, Sire. Besides, we mustn’t draw attention to you or your support too greatly.”
“Well, something must give way soon. You know how much my bones detest the cold. It’s deadly to this body. A lean torso is unforgiving to a stout, north wind. A frailty inherited from my mother, God rest her embittered soul; a curse preordained from laboring lips that my life should not be any more restful than her hours giving birth. The old barren winter is so ungainly and ugly. How I’ve waited for spring and its warmth to rush my hot blood with happiness, so that I may climb out of these insufferable wools; a cruel fate for my sensitive skin to bear that severely taxes my tolerance of sheep. Oh, to run naked through my kingdom if I so choose, molesting every maiden from here to Burgundy with a claim on Pan’s inheritance–butt naked.”