by A. L. Duncan
Talah was touched by this mother’s simple nobility. The worth she embodied from the gold in her lap was no less brilliant than the opulence seen before the richest kings of the world. Talah reached for the small pouch tied around her waist and begun to pull out the dried herbs before the mother stopped her, laying a hand upon the pouch.
“It’s no use,” she insisted. Looking back at her child’s tired eyes, she continued. “They’ve all tried. She is too weak to accept healing. And the others did nothing but turn ill themselves. This curse is killing us all. It is a plague upon our spirits, I’m told, a death for us all.”
Talah felt crushed. Was this the one moment the grip of defeat finally rested upon her, only to feel its tragic end from the eyes of a child? Strangely, it was then the words of Abbess Orla spoke to her:
“Did you not know you carry upon yourself the very caim of Brighid, herself?”
The ancient Pict symbols Talah had worn under her skin since childhood had until now been carried with disgrace and unworthiness if, in fact, to her eyes only. And yet, what a peculiar justice of fate it would be, if it be true that these were more than just symbols, and indeed she carried the healing of Brighid, herself. Talah kindly nodded to the baby. “May I?” Talah peeled off her other glove before being given the baby. Discarding its cloth, she wrapped her arms around its bare body in a warm embrace. Holding it close, she cradled its head in her hand and whispered a Gaelic prayer in its tiny ear.
“Encircle us quiet Brighid, from the blessed realms of God’s grace. Encircle us, gently, sweetly enclosing us, guarding this child’s soul-shrine from harm. Please,” Talah continued and wept. “Keep her from anguish, keep her protected from danger. A light, lend to her, to keep her and defend her Guardian Brighid, this night and ever more.”
Talah allowed the wetness to swell in her eyes and fall upon her cheek, with anguish shrieking in her heart. Then, to the mother’s witnessing eyes a blue white glow emitted from the figure within the cloak and hood as the prayer was being said. Afterward, a subtle, little-noticed hue of light escaped from Talah’s forearms as she made the sign of the cross upon the child’s forehead. Suddenly, the baby began to cry. And to Talah’s joy, it was a riotous and healthy bawl. Talah gleamed and held the bundle at arm’s length.
Elated, Talah laughed. “My, you do have quite a war cry, little one.”
The young mother sobbed uncontrollably in her jubilation. As the infant was returned to her mother’s aching arms, the woman studied the shadows within the hood and turned a tearful gaze back to the bright, flushed features of her baby.
“I’ve no need to see your face to know whom to thank.”
Talah glanced at her arm, exposed to the campfire’s light. She paused, reserved, before slipping on a glove to again hide her symbols. “You have only God to thank, woman. And be grateful for Brighid’s protection. Your child shall no longer feel this enchantment. She is safe now.”
Ban Talah left the woman alone, hearing the mother quickly compose herself to joyfully laugh at her baby’s recovery. Talah turned back once to witness the mother holding the screaming baby before her in pride. “Go on,” she shouted with glee. “Cry! Cry, my little warrior! For you shall one day be as great as any warlord! Cry!” she laughed, through more tears. “Cry!”
TALAH STEPPED METHODICALLY over sticks, roots, and snow-covered slopes as she continued her walk, smiling to herself at how contagious the baby’s new energy was. For the first time she noted a curious calm in her spirit that was not definable. A simple response from an infant’s touch she would swear awakened her senses as intensely as its own. Perhaps, in its own way it was a gift to her in return. For the baby, as the mother had said, was by birth chosen a Druid. Talah shook her head at such irony.
A twig snapped some distance to her left and alerted her to draw her sword. Senses searched the dark grove for movement and her eyes squinted at a figure of horse and rider that sauntered out of the settling fog.
“It is I, Talah.”
Talah breathed again and lowered her sword to the familiar soft voice of veteran knight, Sir Wayne. She re-sheathed her sword as he slid from his saddle with little effort and dawdled toward her, reins twitching playfully in his grasp.
“How did you know where to find me?” asked Talah.
“When you have been around as long as I have, you’ll know the answer,” he replied. “Time becomes more precious. And every little detail of something, whether the tip of a branch or a slight gesture in a silhouette’s walk, seems to catch one’s eye with acute clarity. Or, perhaps one just notices such things out of boredom,” he murmured off. “Such a frightfully chilling evening to be ambling about all alone, don’t you agree?”
“Aye, now that you mention it.”
Sir Wayne swept a hand under her arm and walked with her. “You wouldn’t mind too terribly the company of an old man, would you?”
Talah squeezed his hand with a gentle shrug. “You should know I relish any time spent with you, Sir Wayne.”
“Was that a baby’s cry I heard?” he asked intently.
“Mmm, a healthy one at that.”
“Ah, it wasn’t so very long ago that I heard such cries from your little tongue.” A twinkle arose in his gray eyes. “You wanted nothing to do with me then. The whiskers I suppose.”
“Aye,” Talah feigned.
“And to think how far you’ve come since then.”
“I think I like those whiskers now.”
A sudden gale brought Sir Wayne to shiver aloud. “Oh, but how I love to detest winter. I’m reminded why England has avoided battles during such an awful season as this. Such embroilment’s only freeze on to their weapons and quite possibly to the enemy. God, how I hated those moments. Such an occurrence happened once in the Pyrenees, much a night like tonight. The French king’s betrayal to a Lombard made our presence so.” He glanced coolly to Talah’s quiet mood. “Speaking of which,” he muttered. “How are you handling all of this, about tomorrow, and all?”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, you know.” Sir Wayne stumbled around for the right words. “You and your French mistress. The two of you were practically raised together. All the summers your father would leave you to your wiles in Orleans...”
“She is not the Juetta I once knew,” Talah interceded darkly. “She has changed.”
“Some never change, my dear. If they don’t acquire any sense to their wits they just become more of what they already are. I do wonder what darkens hearts,” he mused aloud. “Certainly, there have been enough wars fought through the years without adding another. These things we try to keep from a child’s eyes. But at times, bound by sovereign hands, we can do no more than to sufficiently overwhelm even the smallest hamlets with the most horrific scenes of bloodshed right before the eyes of the innocent. These children are tomorrow’s ancestors. How, indeed, do they see life through eyes like theirs, eyes that have seen more than any man wouldn’t dare wish upon his own conscience?”
“Juetta was one of the horrified that lived through such a past. Not yet ten years of age.” Talah recalled painfully. “I am to understand she spent some time in a monastery after that.”
“What of her family?”
“All survived well enough. The monks were kind to her in her recovery.”
“And later, was she distant? Disturbed?”
“Not at all,” Talah replied. “Juetta has always been mentally alert, highly resourceful in intellectual attainments, moral instincts, principles.”
“Ah-h,” Sir Wayne breathed, with a tone that befitted one who had just walked into a newly freshened room befit with flowers. “A zest to learn all that Ban Talah knew, hmm?”
Talah’s mind was mesmerized by the vague appearance of a rising full moon as it crept through the branches of trees and dappled atop shallow stream ripples. Lifting her gaze to the moon, she drew a hard breath, deeply troubled at such an unveiling of truth.
“Aye,” she answered, drawing an eye
to the old knight’s sympathizing brow. “But I still have a few secrets of my own.”
Sir Wayne pressed a kiss upon her head. “You, my dear, have acquired something that gives you salience above all others. Use it wisely.”
The knight mounted his sorrel steed and spurred it across the icy waters of a bubbling creek to vanish into the dark and misted wood. A wolf was heard in the distance, its solemn lone voice echoing the full moon. She was keen to notice a misted aura around the moon, such always foretelling a change in climate.
Talah then heard voices a short distance down the stream. She saw nothing through squinting eyes, for the moon had suddenly been hidden behind a movement of threadlike clouds and all was under a darker firmament. The air also became quite thick with an unearthly calm. She decided to walk along the bank. The trickling of water rushed over stones and around small mounds of snow to bubble and ebb through the shallow, flat pass.
She spotted a few men standing on the bank ahead, stumbling and staring at a sight that made them gawk in fright. Talah unsheathed her sword quietly stepping into the water’s gurgling rush to capture a better look at what the men were gasping and fretting about. It was then she spied a ghostly apparition of a woman standing ankle-deep in the waters. Long, wet trusses hid little of the hollow, sunken eyes and sickly flesh. With skirt hiked up past her thigh, the apparition continued washing a handful of bloody clothes, dunking them gently into the current. The sallow figure raised herself and eyed with little regard the awestruck soldiers before wringing out the clothes. The soldiers scattered in dismay, leaving Talah with the curiosity to walk closer. She eyed the fabric under the bloody water and watched as the figure lifted and wrung out Talah’s own vesting.
She was the Luideag, or washer-woman most warriors wished never to meet. If encountered, it was always on the eve of battle. Each warrior who looked upon her would see his or her own shirt being washed, a fatal omen of those to be slain the next day.
“A life for a life,” Bran had said.
Shaken, Ban Talah suddenly felt the deep undercurrent of her mortality sifting gradually through her being as if it was the fine sand from an hour glass, her end just as transparent. She staggered a step backward and dragged her blade across the water’s edge as if the sword suddenly weighed upon her arm a massive burden she could no longer carry. Yet, with a fresh breath of determined resolve, she called angrily to the winds about her.
“I swear to God and Anu, sorceress, I shall not be taken without first sending you to your darkest Hell!”
A DENSE, GLOOMY day appeared at first light. It was a mist of snow and bitter cold that neither man nor beast could steel themselves against without a scowl of resentment. The Abbot of Bath and his handful of priests presided over Talah’s garrison. Mass was given in short. Afterward, the abbot raised a small wooden crucifix over the heads of the faithful and blessed them in his Gaelic tongue. Talah, too, with bowed head crossed herself. She sat upon Lugh in order to overlook all those before her this day. What a courageous lot, she mused proudly. Sir Richard approached alongside and murmured in low the notice of a certain Lord Chamberlain.
Talah drew back in question. “Here?” He nodded. “What on earth for?”
Richard snuffed a grin. “To explore the intentions of our little war party, I gather.”
Sir Richard escorted Talah to Sir Humphrey’s campsite. His area looked as though it were laid out like a king’s, what was left of it. His squire had been some time packing the wagon for departure. Sir Humphrey in his haste and mid-coursing, caught an eye of the two riders sitting idle on their horses before him.
“Yes, well, what is it?” Sir Humphrey growled. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Another glance provided a clearer focus of Talah and Richard. “Oh,” he added with disdain. “It’s you.”
Talah lifted her head to his haughtiness. “Going somewhere?”
Sir Humphrey stammered in hesitation before composing himself. He reached down and plucked an iron skillet from the dead fire and stood defiantly. “I’ve decided to return to London. There’s going to be quite the merciless bloodshed not far from here very soon and I have no intention on being here when it happens.”
“And we so hoped you’d be joining us,” Sir Richard feigned disappointment.
“Why did you come if not to fight?” Talah asked.
“The king sent him,” the young squire announced.
Humphrey swiped the skillet near the boy. “Shut up, you unruly little guttersnipe! Shut up or I’ll—”
“So,” Talah interjected coolly. “You did come to fight.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Anyone in my camp, lest you be a nursing mother or child, must bear arms.”
“Who are you to order me about like some—“
“Those are my rules!”
“Do you know who I am? I am Lord Chamberlain!”
“I am the only Lord here!” Talah stormed. “I don’t care what title you wear. It means no more to me than your squire’s.”
Humphrey stewed. “How dare you.”
Talah paid him no such heed yet eyed the young man. “You are his squire, aye?”
“Oh, yes, my lady,” the lad gleamed.
“Well, then. Suit your master in his armor and see to it that he’s mounted on his horse and escorted to the battle line promptly.”
“This is insane!” Sir Humphrey stuttered.
“This is war, Sir Humphrey. And I’m afraid you look neither like a child nor a mother of such.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Richard said. “Shave his face a bit closer and throw a dress on him, and he might pass quite nicely.”
Talah tried not to crack a smile but held her authoritative features before turning Lugh around. “You will fight in battle this day, Sir Humphrey. I’ll hear nothing more of it. And if you’re not seen on my battle lines promptly I’ll have you hunt down for treason and hung like a pig for the slaughter.”
Humphrey spat, “You shall not hear the last of me, Ban Talah!” He ranted and raved to himself in staggering spurts before swinging the iron pan at his squire. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Wipe that bloody smile off your face and help me into that damned armor!”
TALAH WAS ALONE when she rode up beside Sidric and his long face. He had been peering into the foggy reaches ahead that hid the uncountable figure of souls lurking before them. Sidric shook it off with a shiver from the cold gusts. Talah grinned, knowing he would never admit a fleeting moment of fear.
“I have caused many a battle against many an enemy,” Sidric confessed in his steely Welsh accent. “But know this day thickens my blood to cause death upon my Welsh neighbors. I feel no honor here. Whatever the outcome there shall be consequences against this deed.”
Talah admired his noble character. “Our virtue shall be the return of this demon sorcery to that which darkness it came from,” she consoled. “If your brothers and sisters of South Wales have chosen this path with the beast, then they have chosen poorly. It was of their own will. And if they are as ill this land, enchanted to the will of this demon presence, then there is nothing we can do for them. Own a clear conscience, Sidric. There is no treachery in what we do here today. You’ll find no sheep amongst them. All are wolves awaiting us, their prey.”
Sidric drew an eye to her then smiled. She was wearing his blue tunic. “Then, we had better get this over with so I can reclaim my shirt.”
Talah turned a cheek and drew a solemn breath. “Sidric, I want you to do me a favor.” Her seriousness silenced him. “After this is all over I want you to make certain my sword gets into no one’s hands but the Old Woman of Aos Dana.” She turned to meet his penetrating glare. “You know her. It was she who visited your camp that dreadful day. Wherever you have to go to find her, however long it takes. Do you understand me?”
“You have seen the Luideag, haven’t you?”
She did not reply but turned away from his dropped head, her face drawn. “Will you do this for me, Sidric?”
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“The pain of battle is going with a belief you’ll not return, and fighting every battle with the fervor and zest as if you were told it was the battle of the great powers of the heavens. It is quite another thing to believe this is the last time you will see a companion in arms. It is harder to bear.” Sullenly, he answered as her eyes turned back to his. “It would be my honor, Ban Talah.”
Talah smiled and grabbed his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
She turned Lugh about and galloped out to greet the many faces that stared at her with heated anticipation. She raised her voice so all could hear. And hear they did, for the wind at her back carried her words as if she were speaking in a Roman amphitheater.
“Fellow patriots, we fight this day for those souls sick, suffering, and struck down. Those whose healing from the Goddess, the Lady of the Land, has well ceased to exist as we know it. Thrust into this perpetual winter, be it frozen hearts or frozen limbs, we must lead ourselves to fight on. However you fight, know you are most worthy as a multitude for the freedom of our Lady. Your merits are your humble spirits, servitude to one another and to God Almighty. You have come to show yourselves, every one of you. To bear arms and stand with dignity beside your fellow countrymen and women, and under every banner. Lead this day your blood to ignite a tempest within you and relish the taste of sweat and soreness of limbs that will carry you forward like a raging sea in courage and duty. We all were born on this land for this very day, for this very moment! With God’s speed and Saint Brighid’s blessing, strike! Strike for Celts and Celtic-Christians everywhere! Strike for England! Strike for Wales! Strike for Scotland!”
The assemblage roared with hollers and war cries that disappeared into the thick surrounding blankets of air about them, their declaration a united front. They, who were a divided people, now were the paladins of faith.