by A. L. Duncan
“Aye. I thought I knew her too.”
Danann scrutinized the scroll before her. Already they had unrolled at least a dozen each. “Talah, look at this one.”
A map had been painted with deliberate detail as castles and churches dotted the scape. The artist spared no expense of time as mountains and marshes were added. Welsh kingdoms were illustrated as well as the lakes surrounding them. Talah scanned the parchment for clues, recalling the last vision she held of the goddess in her frozen form, crucified in her agony.
“Look for churches,” Talah said. “Look for anything named for or in the form of a cross.”
Danann wrinkled her nose. “Even anything remotely symbolizing a cross might be a task. Look at all of these. Every Christian church is a symbol of the cross. Are you sure it’s a church? Maybe the Cardinal just wants you to think it’s a church so to throw you off.”
Talah pulled her shoulders back. Crossing her arms over her chest she turned and gazed out the window with a frustrated exhale. “There has to be something obvious I’m overlooking.” The window looked out at the courtyard. From where she stood Talah could see brothers departing in single-file as their chanting was barely audible. Her focus slowly drifted to the panes on the window and their shadowed imprint on the plank flooring below. It was an image that became her epiphany. Twisting about, Talah eagerly traced a finger from one castle and church to another, using each location to mark the four corners of a cross.
“What are you doing?” Danann asked.
“Looking for something that lies in the shadow of a cross.”
“A what?”
“The Cardinal has power. Power to do as he pleases, go where he pleases, and hides with the best fortification his blood money can buy.” A grin of satisfaction played across her lips. Dipping a quill into a bottle of ink she reached down onto Wales and drew a line connecting Swansea castle in the south to Penlle’r castle to its north. Then drew another line from Neath castle in the east to Loughor castle to its west. Talah then turned the scroll upside down for Danann to see a perfectly drawn cross with a castle at each of its points.
Danann sat back and marveled. “Which one is it?”
“None of them,” Talah replied evenly. “At each castle sits an army, defending the Cardinal’s rich treasure, which lies between them all.” Talah stuck the quill through the parchment where the lines crossed.
“But, Talah I know this place. It’s a flat meadow. There’s nothing there. Why would the illustrator use such detail just to leave something out if there was truly something there?”
“Because the monk who illustrated this map was a Norman-Christian. He couldn’t possibly have known the myth kept only by Celtic-Christians. Yet, if by chance the Cardinal would have the knowledge of incantation...“
“My God,” Danann gasped. ‘Of course.” She lifted the quill from the scroll and eyed the hole in the cross. “The Lake of the Cross.”
“That is where we will find the Cardinal. And that is where we will find the Lady of the Land.”
MOYA AND BRODIE paced about before the confessionals, passing to eye each other now and again.
“What on earth can he be confessing about?” Moya asked impatiently.
“You’ve got to remember something,” Brodie explained. “Mac has never confessed to anything in his life. He’s an old man. There’s a hell of a lot of confessing to do. We might be here ‘till morning.”
“Or June,” Moya replied with a whimper.
Finally, the confessional curtain slid open and Mac stepped out with a peaceful grin on his face. Moya stopped to stare at the peculiar air about him.
With worried brow, Moya pulled Brodie close and murmured. “What’s happened to him?” Brodie shrugged. “What has that bishop done to our Mac?”
Brodie and Moya carefully stepped near the burley warrior as if he were some wild creature. Brodie reached out and nervously patted him on the back. “Well, Brother Fergus. How is...everything?”
Mac sighed and smiled along with Brodie and nodded. “Good.”
“Eh?”
“Good,” he repeated. “I’ve been needing to get it off my chest.”
The bishop slowly moved out from behind the curtain folds and leaned his back hard against the cold, stone wall. A shaking hand lifted before his pale face and his head fell against his palm. A whimpering moan escaped his thin lips.
Moya turned to the bishop. “Mac, what in God’s name did you tell him?”
“Everything,” he replied in earnest.
“Ho-o!” Brodie crowed. “No wonder. That should keep him down for a good long while.”
The bishop lowered a hand to his dry lips and opened his eyes, gasping and jumping like a frightened rabbit to the sight of Mac standing close before him.
Mac smiled warmly as the man shrieked and cowered against the wall.
“I want to thank you, Your Grace. I feel much better now.”
The bishop slowly nodded and twinged a grin in acceptance. Mac then stepped up and embraced him with a firm hug, much to the bishop’s horrified disapproval, then stepped away leaving the bishop to stare blankly.
Brodie walked up and pulled the bishop from the wall. The bishop raised his head slightly. “Would you like to hear ours, now?” Brodie asked.
The bishop swallowed hard and motioned lightly with a weak hand. “Do the two of you have...a history...such as Brother Fergus?”
Eagerly, Brodie replied. “Aye. Pretty much.”
The bishop cowered on weakened knees. “I seem to be feeling rather...peaked all of a sudden. Perhaps at another time, hmm?”
Brodie feigned sympathy with a clicking of his tongue and coaxed him into the nave. “Why don’t we find you a nice cup of tea, aye?”
“Yes...yes. That sounds like a lovely idea.”
The bishop staggered on wobbly legs and mumbled senselessly with Brodie on his arm, grinning over his shoulder.
Moya wrapped an arm around Mac’s. “I know full well how Fergus MacConnell can weave a story or two with all the gory details to match any bard. Looks like he won’t be headed out into the world anytime soon.”
Mac dropped an eye to her and drew a sly grin. His belly shook as he chuckled under his breath as if he were admitting to an evil plan that worked better than expected.
SUDDEN THUNDERING SHOUTS alerted Talah and Danann to the courtyard below. Talah jumped to the window and quickly pressed herself against the wall. She craned her neck to eye the approach of many horse soldiers.
Danann stood to the other side and looked out. “King’s men!” she spat. “What are they doing here?”
“Looking for me,” Talah said simply.
“No one knows you’re here.”
Talah glanced over the soldiers carefully before resting on a familiar figure she had always felt contempt for. He sat tall in the saddle, confident of his title and power. His black mustache trimmed neatly above a contemptuous, turned-up lip.
“Why would the king send his men to arrest you after all you’ve done for him?” asked Danann hatefully.
“I know now the king delivered no such order. This is his chamberlain, Lord Tennison, who leads these men of his own accord. It is for his own gain he is here. There is not a man more wicked in England save he.”
Tennison barked so that even his echo drew the ears of those deep within church walls to turn. “Ban Talah! Surrender to me now and no harm will come to these men!”
A priest approached the chamberlain in bold tongue. “We have no commoners here, nor warriors of any kind. Even the likes of Ban Talah would surely be known among us. If you seek a woman, she would be where the nuns reside.” He shook an aged finger at the horsemen. “How dare you come and disturb this holy place with your vermin. Savages, all of you! Go away and leave us our peace!”
Tennison threw a leg over his horse and slid off the saddle. He drew his sword and sauntered before the priest. Talah felt the cold wind touch her soul and knew these next moments were embracing a d
ark craving in Tennison’s heart. She moved to leave but not before Danann held her back.
Tennison cocked his head and curiously eyed the old man with pursed lips. With sword tip pressed against the priest’s robe, Tennison smiled. “I am impressed with such hatred from a man of God. Are you certain you’re allowed such venom? Careful, you might burst into flames.” The old, yellowed eyes of the priest darted to Tennison’s soldiers who laughed at his expense. “So tell me. Are you a Norman or are you a Saxon?”
The priest spit on the chamberlain’s boots. “Years ago I would have run you through.”
Tennison cackled and clicked his tongue. “Now, now.” The sword drove deeply into the man’s heart. “Spoken like a true Saxon.” Tennison looked to relish in the moment before pressing a boot against the fallen torso, withdrawing the blade slowly. Tennison then threw a wild eye about the crowded courtyard. “He was just a Saxon, Talah!” he brewed. “I can do one better, if you like.” He gestured to his horsemen. “Oh, but how I forget, you do take kindly to your Celtic-Christians, don’t you?”
The soldiers parted to allow a procession of monks to stumble by, hands tied before them, their robes soiled in a way that confirmed they had been dragged behind the horses. Talah’s heart sunk desperately to the pathetic sight, picturing a similar situation at Newcastle Abbey.
Tennison reached out and gripped hold of a monk’s robe, jerking him off his feet to kneel before him. Gesturing with his sword he pointed to the monk.
“If you don’t come out, I will cut down one monk at a time until you do. Am I clear enough? I would savor the joy of killing them all in your honor! You barbarians still love to offer a sacrifice to your gods, don’t you?”
His shouts echoed viciously through Talah’s ears. The horrifying din of fierce rage and indecisiveness ravaged her conscious. “Others aren’t meant to die for my sake.”
Danann held her. “Talah, don’t do it. Keep out of sight until he leaves.”
“He’s not going to leave, Danann,” Talah growled.
Tennison was one of several earls King Henry had appointed as chamberlain to act as deputies throughout the Normandy kingdom enforcing his warrants to embezzling tax-collectors and overseeing petty money lending ledgers. Tennison, however, had a reputation in most villages for distorting the king’s laws to his own benefit and seizing merchant’s funds. Cunning and treachery were this knight’s only armor. At the king’s expense, Tennison now commanded his own army to hunt down his wealthiest venture yet.
Tennison’s sword cut through the rope that harnessed the young monk to the others and dragged him out into the middle of the courtyard. The monk shivered with fright and eyed the blade as it waved before him. Tennison leaned over closely with sword tip to the monk’s throat.
“And what are you?” Tennison asked coyly. “Norman or Saxon?”
The monk struggled to lift his shaking hands, tied together as they were, doe eyes of a teenage boy looking back starkly. His voice cracked in answer. “I am a Norman, my lord. My name is Geoffrey.”
Tennison feigned interest. “Geoffrey? Like the king’s son?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Oh. What a pity.” Tennison turned away, curled his fingers around the dagger at his waist and backhanded its razor sharp edge across the boy’s throat in one nonchalant motion. With a dispassionate play he dragged his sword tip in the dirt behind him.
Talah fell to her knees before the window, her guilt dissolving in tears. Blood throbbed in feverish veins across her face and fists clenched to white knuckles. Finally, Talah decided the pains of the past and present were unbearable and pulled the robe over her head with fresh resolve.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going down.”
“No! I won’t let you!”
Talah grabbed Danann by both arms. “Listen to me.”
“They’ll kill you!”
“Listen to me.” Talah looked sternly and lovingly into her friend’s vexed and flooded eyes. “I am not going to hide away up here like some bandit while those monks, children, are butchered at my expense.”
“It’ll save your life!”
Talah sat back on her heels. Although she was pale and shocked at Danann’s remark, she knew Danann’s selfish heart bled only with protective love for her. At which, her eyes softened and her hand reached out to Danann’s fair chin, forcing her to look upon her friend’s sympathetic calm.
“I’m going down to save their lives.”
Talah untied the pouch around her waist and lifted both her dagger and the Old Woman’s dagger from their sheaths and thrust them into Danann’s arms.
“As we speak,” she continued. “Bran is on his way to seek council with Pope Alexander to appeal on my behalf. Until then,” she reached for the scroll and started rolling it up tightly. “I’ll need you to send a courier to Snowdonia. We’re going to need Sidric and his army. He owes me a favor.” They both stood as Talah lifted Lisula over her head with sheath and laid it in Danann’s hands. “No matter what, you must go through with this. Promise me, Danann.”
On a sudden intake of breath, Talah fell silent and awaited Danann’s answer. The two, it seemed, agreed silently that howsoever this wicked day had come to pass and howsoever this vile fate should uncloak the Scottish warrior Ban Talah, both women trusted their bond of friendship to the ends of the earth and trust was the mantle of faith they shared.
“I promise,” answered Danann weakly.
Talah swept past before pausing at the door with a slight glance behind her. Danann stood with her back to Talah’s departing figure and stared blankly at the floor boards, gripping hold of Lisula with conviction. A pang of affliction fell upon Talah as she closed the door.
IN THE COURTYARD, Tennison freed another monk from his bonds and pushed him near the sprawled bodies of his dead brothers, their ash gray robes ensanguined. The young monk choked back tears. Tennison eyed the boy curiously then swept his attention over the many monks who had since gathered outside from various directions.
“Do you always send little boys out into the forest to gather wood on their own?” Tennison spat with humor. “You never know what kinds of monsters are lurking out there.” The last, he hissed near the boy’s flinching features. Pulling himself upright he glowered in his power. “I don’t really care whether you are Norman or Saxon, truthfully.”
“He is a holy brother of the Roman Church,” a voice rang out.
The sleet had turned to snow, which flaked the air like swift glimpses of stars. The wind carried them to whisk away over the pale, gray stone walls, or to swirl like dust motes in circular dances about the courtyard’s blown dirt. Monks’ robes flowed as the seas and parted for the figure behind them to pass. Ban Talah stood tall, defiant with shoulders back to Tennison’s triumphant grin. Her eyes stared back into his callous grays unblinking.
“A holy brother,” she continued demandingly. “Whom you, Chamberlain Tennison, are sworn to protect under the king’s oath of Christian Monasteries and their inhabitants.”
Mutterings emerge from the many monks around her.
“A woman,” gasped one.
“Ban Talah!” shouted another.
“Among our cloister,” said yet another.
Talah paid them no heed, but instead continued her methodical, steady pace out near the dead brothers. Standing over them she raised a disregarding eye to Tennison’s imperious glare.
“Obviously your weakness,” he said, motioning to the bodies. “I knew you’d come.”
“Your insolence bores me, Tennison,” she replied. “You are so predictable. What’s the matter, afraid to play with others your own size?”
Tennison’s eye twitched as he sauntered before Talah. She stood unmoving to his audacity, even to the sword tip, which pressed upon her chest just above her left breast.
“You want to play?” he seethed. “Alright. We’ll play.”
He pressed his sword hard until her skin pierced. She never once winced.
Slightly impressed, he pressed harder. “Well, sorceress seems you can take pain well.”
Talah blinked once and with a breath, grinned. “Can you?”
Suddenly, Tennison jumped back with a start and painful cry, pulling the blade away. He quickly removed a bloody hand from his chest. His olive tunic was stained from an obvious puncture wound.
Tennison staggered back a step and grimaced. Pointing at her with sword in hand, he shouted, “I’m not afraid of your magic, Ban Talah!”
“Good. This may prove more interesting than I thought.”
“Heretic! Is that any way to speak to one who has captured you?”
“I’m not caught, yet.”
Suddenly humored, Tennison snickered viciously. “Right. Here’s what you’ll do. Show me your talent, then. Raise those from the dead and I shall spare the lives of these others.”
Talah winced at the proposition knowing full well the consequences of such a healing. Her blood began to boil believing Tennison couldn’t possibly have known of this art without the profound knowledge of the Cardinal. If this act were performed she would most certainly be found guilty of an obvious crime against the Church with witnesses in abundance. Blades gleamed from soldiers’ daggers near the throats of the other monks, at the ready of Tennison’s command.
“How much did he pay you to provide such a clever lure?”
Tennison gleamed brightly. “My dear Scot. It is only to my mere pleasure I bring you to the Cardinal, and to the good of Normandy your price.”
“The only monetary value you’ll bring to this land is the one nutrient from your rotting bones.” To Tennison’s soldiers she added, “None of you will see the Cardinal’s money. He’ll keep it all for himself.”
“I’m told you must comply with the laws of your gods, Ban Talah,” said Tennison. “For...some reason. And if given an ultimatum, one life for another, you must take the challenge.”
Talah sneered at his arrogance. “Something like that.”
“You cannot deny me, Ban Talah! Here, the world awaits you! Raise your dead and bring us to our knees in awe.”
