by A. L. Duncan
Talah stepped away and began wiping off the soap from her blade with a snicker. “Chasing your little water nymphs through glades and streams, I suppose.”
Henry rubbed the residue off his face with a cloth. “You should try it sometime, Talah. No ulterior motive. Simply gaiety. Although, I don’t reference you and gaiety in the same expression. Am I wrong?”
Talah smiled. “I would not fail to appreciate such a sentiment.”
Henry barked a laugh. “I hunted my best catch ever when naked, once. When younger and even more foolish than I am now. The sweetest buck meat Becket and I ever...”
The king stopped himself.
Talah met his solemn eyes before he dropped them in despair. She was used to his many tangents, and humored him as anyone would. However, recently, whenever they ended in Thomas Becket’s name she couldn’t help but sympathize with his tortured feelings, even if brought on by himself.
Henry inhaled a breath and quickly changed the subject. “Where on earth did you get that blade?” he asked, running a hand over his smooth face. “I haven’t seen skin here since my knees were as bare.”
Talah slid the dagger back in her boot. “It was a gift, Sire.”
“Soft as a virgin’s lips, by God! You’ve always taken good care of me, Talah,” he added with affection.
“I have sworn loyal service to you, my lord.”
“And I have, to much distaste of my morals, treated you like the muddied boot I cast aside.”
Talah spoke not a word yet assisted him with a fresh shirt. “There are times in a king’s life he must choose to comply with the world instead of resting with his own better judgment. You rule many kingdoms, Sire. Not one.”
Henry met Talah’s eyes. Distinctly, he replied, “Unless that one is more trustworthy to me than all my kingdoms. Do you think I would let one of my chamberlains hold a dagger so sharp to my throat without believing he would, at the first breath, slit me ear to ear?”
“Sire, you cannot cast a privilege on a subject you would not do to all. Your armies are just as loyal to you as I am. Besides which fact, I am to understand the Church is willing to excommunicate you...”
“Damn the Church!” Henry stormed. “You are my subject and I shall do for you as I please. Not to be threatened by some rabid creature out for your so-called heretical blood. Tell me. Is it this new pope—the anti-pope? If it is I shall have him assassinated.”
“No, Sire.”
“One of my bishops, then? God knows they all want your head.”
“No.”
“Then just who the bloody hell is he?” Henry was pacing like a caged tiger.
“A cardinal. That is all I know.”
“Then, by God I shall execute every last cardinal!”
“He will only change appearances.”
“I have a very long arm.”
“This is no ordinary man.”
“So, you’re telling me we are waging a war with Merlin reincarnated?”
Talah replied in light, “Merlin would in fact be on our side, Sire.” The king only flipped a hand at her, exasperated. “What shining example are you to the people, the king of Normandy and England, to risk losing the Church for a Scot?” she added.
“I’ve done worse.”
Talah sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have a long life ahead of you, my king. Keep your scruples about you, to have something to bargain with in future conflicts.”
“I have bargained my pangs of conscience enough. Yes, perhaps you are right that I am frivolous. But I shall stand by my convictions— that is one thing you’ve taught me. At first I felt needed to cower under the heavy hand of Rome. But just how many popes are necessary? It seems Rome is breeding them like rabbits. As far as I’m concerned now, Alexander is still pope and still the all-powerful hand of the Roman Church, whether he be in Rome or not. It was he, not this creature with his constipated inadequacies, who believes your Celtic wisdoms. This anti-pope can stick his scriptural bigotry up his bastard-children’s asses!”
“Forgive me, Sire,” Talah said, impassive. “But we must decide soon. Your bishops reflect whatever is decreed in Rome threefold. This Cardinal will not cease until you are excommunicated, England is turned upside down, and my head garnished on a silver platter. There are mercenaries out there wearing Norman armor and getting paid by your bishops to hunt me and other Celtic-Christians down like pigs for the spit.”
Henry frowned, “My God, what a waste of money. You never die.”
“If you truly believe that then why are you trying to save me?”
“Because you are a blood commodity worth more to me than gold or my kingdom. Without you to have led my armies I would not have this kingdom. Dammit, woman, you are invaluable to me.” The king held her at arm’s length. “For God’s sake, Talah, go back to Scotland. It would only be for a few years.”
Talah scoffed. “You want me to rid you of the Cardinal while in Scotland.”
“Don’t you see? If you are taken by some out-of-the-way hamlet, a sheriff can have you in chains, jury condemn you, and bishop burn you—all by my writ.” Henry stared at her, his face set and hard. “I need you dammit. Alive.” Henry then smiled. “Come now, don’t you believe this is coming from my heart and not my loins?”
“Not too convincing, majesty, considering I’m the only woman to ever have stepped into your bedchamber and not your bed.”
The king laughed. “You run a close second to the Queen.” Henry released her and walked over to a table, snatching up a pewter chalice of wine. “And hers hasn’t seen my miserable likeness but the few times which later bore my God-awful sons. Believe me, Talah, I would have a thousand and twelve sons with you if I could. A whole army of your tenacity would ensure me a kingdom. In fact a new Rome, and my sons, Caesar’s!”
Ill-humored, Talah said, “I don’t wish to be your maternal savior.”
“Nor will you be my martyr. I can do no more than offer you my protection behind these walls, or elsewhere if need be. As we speak, your name is surely being bandied throughout every hamlet as a heretic and a price on every grubby moneylender’s lips shouting to the tune of twenty thousand pounds in gold. Stay with me, Talah,” he insisted.
“I cannot.”
“I’ll rush you off to one of my keeps myself, then. Mont Saint-Michel, if you like. Just until all this passes.”
“I’ll not risk it.”
“Dammit, woman!” Henry hollered, throwing his challis aside in rage, “I’ll assign armed guards to drag you away!”
Talah stiffened. “Is that how you threatened Becket before sending him into exile?”
The king’s face twisted with hatred. “How dare you speak that name before me. I had forbidden you to ever speak that name again. Get out. Get out!” His whole body was shaken by the haunting truth. After a pause, Talah turned for the door. He called to her over his shoulder. “Talah. Know there is only one difference between you and Becket. My consent.”
Talah bowed to her king and departed through the door, only to stumble before the presence of the queen. Eleanor’s countenance fell to a mere nod before passing Talah. Talah decided to brace herself against the cracked open door, curious at the royal couple’s exchange.
“You aren’t one to hide your ridicule, wife,” Henry grumbled. “You can chalk your name on such a face. Spit it out.”
“There seems no end to it. Murmurings under the tables of drunken barons and chamberlains concerning your exasperating musings over that woman.”
“And when was the last time you were under a table?”
“Extra eyes and ears are cheap.”
“So is a warm, supple body.”
“Why do you test me, Henry?”
“Why do you question me? If Ban Talah’s return brings irresistible and crowing dread from you, then why not say it?”
Eleanor’s voice drew softer. “You still love her, don’t you? I assume your silence is a reply,” she answered crudely. “You would sell a
kingdom for what you could never possess.”
“It would depress me to part with her again,” Henry spat.
“A gilded cage cannot make the dove sing.”
“I don’t want her to sing, I want her to shine. A bejeweled treasure. A precious ornament. An irresistible attraction. Something Louis or even a Lombard would pay highly for or even trade for a young, milky pale thing to fancy.”
“Don’t disgrace yourself.”
“Perhaps I should dangle our warrior about the noses of Rome like a carrot with a few noble, conventional and trifling promises. A commiseration of ship to shore with bewailing bishops, granting a refuge of befitting deception.”
“A brief hors d’oeuvre fed to Rome’s insatiable appetite, I’m afraid.”
“You think so?”
“You would blame her for your deception and indecisiveness. All things earthly are a woman’s eyes, all things heavenly are a man’s reason for condemnation. You wax and wane like the moon. This malady will manifest itself in parlor politics on a day your melancholy will suffer pangs of envy so, you will become an apple ripe for the plucking. You will lose, Henry. Lose terribly. You are too impressed with her moral beauty. Pick your poison. Profess to God your sins and have done with, and let God and goddess battle it out. She is a myth, Henry. A myth always loses in the end.”
FREEZING RAIN MIXED with falling snow as Ban Talah made her way back to the monastery in Hastings. Ice formed along the stone walls like liquid sheets draped in a breeze. None could see Talah for the thick cloak and hood that hung about her, itself weighed down by collected ice and snow. Her blanket roll was as covered in ice as Lugh’s back and tail. She endured the cutting winds with numb resolve. The words implied by Eleanor and Henry’s bickering were for Talah an intimate disclosure of how most humans dealt with their fears and inner battles. More to the point, it was disappointing how those in power gathered folds of that which was most familiar with them. They seemed profoundly comfortable with conceptions within shadows rather than siding instinctively with what truth would guide them to. Were the loyalties of a subject enough to sway a king’s interest in a less-thanhonorable trade for a richer commodity? Talah bore the question as heavily as her iced cloak.
The fair-skinned monk who had rescued her from the shoreline now stood before the stable doors with a welcoming smile, beckoning her inside. Talah jumped off Lugh and watched her breath dissipate as she removed her gloves. The monk carefully eyed the yard for any persons before closing the stable doors after him. Watching Talah slide the saddle off Lugh, he again made certain they were alone before speaking.
“We haven’t much time,” he said with warning.
“I know. The king wants me to return to Scotland. He made it quite clear the Church has twisted his edict. And not to our advantage, I’m afraid.”
“There’s a gathering of army, mercenaries, who are headed this way.”
Talah pulled the hood off her head slowly, shocked at the news. “How did they find out?”
The monk shrugged, then shook his head.
“How soon?”
“One hour, maybe less.” Talah threw her head back in exasperation and gritted her teeth. The monk clutched her arm, adding reluctantly, “Talah, they are the king’s men.”
Talah stared at the monk’s solemn features, horrified and sickened. “No. He wouldn’t betray me. He wouldn’t betray me.”” She twisted her arm violently from his grasp and staggered aside. “You’re wrong!”
The monk approached her again. “Talah, listen to me. You must go. Now.”
Rage brewed within her as she pulled the cold, wet cloak over her head and tossed it across the floor.
“Give me your robe,” she ordered.
The monk shrank back a step, modestly surprised.
Talah lowered her shoulders with impatience. “You’re not going to need it. I want you to go to France.”
An eye twitched nervously in response. “France?”
“I need you to speak to Pope Alexander,” she replied while draping her sword over her shoulder.
“Impossible. King Louis holds him tightly. The only other person to get near him is Thomas Becket.”
“Then get Becket to hold council with Alexander for me. Explain our situation. He’ll understand. He’s the only chance we’ve got.” Talah placed the Crane Bag in his arms. “I need you to keep this in a safe place for me.” The look she received was almost one of blighted hope. “Only as a precaution.” Talah didn’t know how to express the foreboding she felt. Turning from him Talah walked Lugh into a stall and began stripping off his bridal. “Tell me where I can find this library you spoke of.”
The monk lovingly embraced the Bag and answered low. “There’s a small spiral staircase behind the far right confessional. It is forbidden for most to enter, especially the nuns. It is locked. Only the bishop and abbot have a key.” He sheepishly pulled a long, silver key from his sleeve. A grin played around her lips as she took the key, quite aware of his cunning charm. The monk shrugged the idea off. “The abbot invited me over for morning tea. He likes to compare philosophies on the Greek plays.”
Her mind clearly not on his explanation, Talah took the article of cloth he pulled off his back and sympathized with him as he stood shivering, stark naked.
“How long will it take you to reach Becket?” she asked.
“I shall have arrived by morning. When next the bells toll.”
“You’d better get going before you freeze like that.”
The simple man who had kept her from harm, transformed before her, back to the form he was well known for, that of the white raven.
Opening a stall door, Talah smiled lovingly at her companion as he rested on her arm. “Prayers and God’s speed, Bran.” She lifted her arm as the white wings took flight and with a breath of sadness added, “Pray for me.”
A CHANTING SWELLED within the nave, a solemn echo from the many voices of monks. As mass ended, the robed monks and nuns made way for the bishop and gathered behind him as he led all to the confessionals. Behind the pillars, Talah and her companions were dressed in monk’s attire waiting for the bishop to pass in his ornately decorated periwinkle robes before joining in the procession. All dutifully lined up behind four confessional drapes as the bishop disappeared behind a scarlet curtain with three priests.
Talah and Danann quickly moved to stand with their backs to the far right confessional as Mac, Moya, and Brodie stood guard before them. Talah slipped Danann the key and whispered to Mac.
“Keep everyone distracted. And if the bishop tries to get in, occupy him.”
“How?”
Talah smiled. “Try confessing.”
Before Mac could growl at her, both she and Danann had slipped through the panel unnoticed. Boots echoed up the winding stone steps and darkness was immediate. Talah had stopped only to check her surroundings before Danann ran into her.
“Sorry,” Danann whispered.
Once up top, stone was replaced by wood planking that creaked like a sigh with each step. The door groaned open to an awkward sized enclave, filled floor to ceiling with the smell of dust and musty paper. Talah walked around the room until she found a narrow eight-foot shutter and unlatched it, flinging the doors wide to allow the day’s dull light and cold air to penetrate life into the stuffy atmosphere.
Danann squinted at the sudden shaft of light and shut the inner pane windows. “I believe any fresh air here will only scatter these precious pages to dust.”
Floor to ceiling the room was filled with ancient books and scrolls. Talah eyed the texts breathlessly, touching the leather bindings in awe. “I wonder how old some of these pieces are?”
“So, what are we doing sneaking around a monastery that’s supposed to be protecting us?”
“Bran protected us,” Talah corrected. “Our presence is still unknown to all others except the few nuns who helped us.”
Danann pulled the hood off her head. “Are we not safe even in a monastery?”
“There is always one monk around who finds gold is closer to godliness than morning prayer. Are you willing to risk all we’ve done on the hope this is a monastery free from such greed?”
Danann grimaced in compliance. “What are we looking for?”
Talah glanced through the open shelves, stuffed full with scrolls. “Bran mentioned a scroll that will show us all the castles and churches built in England and Wales within the last hundred years.”
“I see. We are looking for a church. Wouldn’t the Cardinal be hiding out in Rome, where he could best influence the pope?”
“He’s already done that.”
Danann turned to Talah. “May I ask you something?”
“Hmm.”
“Have you figured out yet how Juetta is a part of all this?”
Talah paused. Enraged at first at the mere mention of her name, Talah’s consciousness couldn’t help but find similarities between her reaction and King Henry’s to Becket’s name. Such an emotion halted her to empty ponderings, to which she let out a slow breath. “I’m not certain,” she replied finally.
“A messenger, perhaps?”
“Or just another someone after my ransom.”
“That would explain our chance meeting with her in Penzance. And the reason the Cardinal knew of our coming for the Crane Bag. I knew something wasn’t right about her, but I had no idea...”
“Danann,” Talah interrupted quietly. “Forgive me. Forgive me for not trusting you.”
Danann met her solemn glance and smiled softly. “I thought you knew her as well as you’ve known me.”
