Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  Talah felt confident in Danann’s resolve. She felt her fearful stare, and looked over her shoulder. Talah nodded once to her friend. Grudgingly Danann, in compliance to her oath, pulled the sleeves of her companions and departed. After much hesitation, they followed her leave.

  Now at ease knowing her companions had parted, Talah sighed and drew her eyes to the young boy lying before her, blood still drawing from his grotesque wound. With arms raised she stood before them and held one hand toward the boy and the other toward the old man, pausing only slightly before closing her eyes. Summoning all her spirit she visualized her mother, the goddess Tlachtga, before the sacred pillar-stone, recalling her mother’s words as shards of light thrust into her torso: “This torment you endure is the pain suffered from man against man...it shall be your shield and the mantle of thy head.”

  The courtyard filled with a torrent of swirling wind so strong it seemed the trees bent their branches in bellicose defiance, imploring her to cease. Her form poured out shards of light like a magnificent fountain, feeding into each fallen body. Such a sight no monk could gaze upon without mortified gasps, no soldier without awe.

  The west winds again kicked up a nebulous stir and an eerie calm settled over the place as the bodies of both the fallen rose from the ground, levitating in bathing motes of blue-white light. Thunder rolled overhead frightening many to scamper into the church and horsemen to tremble on and around their already nervous steeds.

  Talah jerked from a bolt of lightning that speared her from the skies, drawing the currents of light within her to fade into the earth. The two monks were slowly lowered back to the hard ground, limp as they had been before. The swirls of snow decreased and descended with a still air. Both priest and monk now appeared unscathed. Through the din of physical exhaustion, Talah thought she could hear whispers from the crowd, prayers. She felt relieved to know there were a few Celtics in hiding. Unfortunately, they too held the burden of knowing this to be her ultimate incrimination against the strong hand of the Roman Church.

  “A devil!” growled the bishop, stumbling out into the courtyard. “Stop this woman and her sorceries at once!” He waved to Tennison madly. “How dare you allow such atrocity to hold presence in my monastery. Arrest this witch at once!”

  Coolly, Tennison replied, “All in due time, Your Eminence.”

  Appalled, the bishop countered, “This is not some freak carnival, man. This is holy ground! Remove her!”

  There was no immediate stirring from either body. Tennison’s voice drew closer to Talah. “Well, has the mighty Ban Talah proven to be merely a fable cloaked in meek, children’s parlor tricks?”

  Suddenly, both figures thought dead began to stir. Slowly and painfully, they arose to murmurs and mutters around them. Their wounds had been healed. Indeed, Ban Talah had brought them back to the living.

  “Impossible,” the bishop gasped, wide-eyed.

  Talah, numb and wearied, fell to her knees. She was beaten. Tennison raised a victorious head in satisfaction to her glare. “Well then,” he breathed. He turned from her and mounted his horse. “Arrest her.”

  “What about the monks?” asked a soldier.

  With a judicious lip he shrugged. “The battle is over. The mighty dragon has been brought down by her own fire, at long last.”

  Pulling his horse about, he departed through the rising mist. Snow continued to fall more profusely now. Talah knew it would be a long way to Canterbury. She was approached by one particular horseman. He bent to her and gently lifted her to stand. Hands tied before her he then assisted her into a saddle, laying out her cloak courtly as if he were attending a queen.

  Turning an eye to the kindly knight she asked weakly, “What is your name?”

  “Peter of Exeter, my lady,” the dark-bearded man answered with his head bowed.

  Her eyes scanned all the horsemen about her. Those who stayed behind she recognized as going into many battles with her once, not so very long ago. The Ban Talah they once swore loyalty to. And to Talah’s surprise, the woman they still honored. One by one, the men bowed their heads to her.

  “Forgive us, my lady,” said Peter, almost tearfully.

  “You are all good men,” she replied sternly. “Do as your lord bids.”

  “Give the word,” whispered one man with eager breath, “and we’ll do as you bid.”

  All nodded their heads in agreement. Eyeing the monks greeting those freed from bondage and the two who now stood again miraculously alive, Talah knew her work here was done. It was the bishop of this monastery, however, that stood motionless to those around him, glaring at Talah with scrutinizing eyes, unwavering in his faith. He had eyes and yet he still did not see. She could not enlighten his path any more than his willingness would allow. She knew then her condemnation had just begun.

  She pulled on the reins and began to turn her horse about, answering the noble knights with solemn tongue. “Then, I order you to do as your lord bids.”

  Chapter Eight

  CATHEDRIAL BELLS TOLLED the dawn hour. Tennison’s men had just entered the gates of Canterbury with their prisoner in tow. The king’s chamberlain had ridden ahead to the cathedral to meet with his adversary, the Cardinal. The Cardinal peered with dark eyes through a window that faced the square observing the many peasants arriving for early mass. The day was well lit despite the lazy appearance of the sun as it peaked on the hilly berm like a ripe tangerine. The Cardinal allowed the silence of the room to bring unrest to his guest before speaking.

  “It is no doubt all fortune’s gifts fall into the hands of those most pursuant,” the Cardinal announced quietly. “Don’t you agree, Lord Tennison?”

  Tennison’s impatience was visible in his demeanor. “Call her anything you like. But this gift comes with a price.”

  “There is nothing which one man can do to another that he cannot himself suffer at the hands of someone else. A price of this world, indeed.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “All of flesh and blood is tormented by his own destructive passions, Mr. Tennison. Especially when his fortunes of freedom come to him from the judgment of another human soul. Do not be wiser of your capture than it behooves you to be wise. It is not becoming of a king’s chamberlain.”

  Tennison laughed heartily at the Cardinal’s even tongue. “Oh, how brightly the Cardinal sings in his self-righteousness. Such hypocrisy from that tongue of yours to speak to me of blood-dripping riches when it was you, yourself, who ordained the order.” Tennison stepped closer to the Cardinal. “Well, allow me to reply in terms you understand, Eminence. Today is Providence. By contract, this woman carried my predestined reward. And I should wish to receive it promptly. This wealth will not harm its owner, I assure you.”

  The Cardinal turned to gesture a hand near the curtained alcove. “Indeed. Such a reward is thus predestined.” He wrapped his fingers about a tasseled rope and pulled the curtain open exposing a large, gold-gilded chest ornately decorated with small oval frescos of biblical prophets. The gold and colorful precious stones glimmered in Tennison’s lustful eyes by a candles reflective burning.

  “Indeed,” Tennison replied joyously.

  The lid opened easily to Tennison’s touch. Bright yellow coins shone back at him, glittering the glory of many suns, a wealth only imagined from the dynasties of the world’s greatest kings and emperors. He knelt to take in the full view and, running a hand over the lip of the chest, plunged an arm deep into his fortune. A cackle escaped his toothy grin as he brought a fist of precious coins above the whole, their weighty spillage chinking against one another in musical symphony.

  It was then the spillage materialized into twisting, writhing snakes, their slick bodies dancing in the flickering light. Tennison cried out at the horror. Those wriggling from his frozen grasp dropped into a sea of movement. The chest was filled to the rim with serpents. Tennison jerked his hand toward his chest, wincing when the last one dropped from his hand after sinking its tiny fangs in
to the soft skin of his thumb and forefinger. Almost instantly, his breathing became shallow, erratic.

  The Cardinal stepped close staring with calm resolve at Tennison’s shocked features. “Measure for measure, Mr. Tennison. Your reward.”

  Tennison’s features were swallowed up by the solid black eyes that looked upon him in their abyssal haunting. “What...have you done?” he asked with barely a breath.

  “The viper has simply been given his own venom.” With one small gesture from the Cardinal, the illusion of a chest disappeared. “Greed, Mr. Tennison, is a foxglove which is cunning in its ambition to be beautiful. Herein I shall teach you how to attain the true glory of God and embrace His forgiveness.” A pearl of sweat trickled down Tennison’s pale cheek as the Cardinal added, “By ridding the English throne of its Norman king and its immitigable corrodings of Ban Talah’s presence once and for all, you may now allow yourself paradise, Mr. Tennison. You have served your king well.”

  The scarlet robed figure departed without haste, leaving a slumped body its morbid peace in an empty, ill-lit chamber.

  THE BISHOPS OF eight regions stood in attendance together with the acting Bishop of Lincoln and their prelates and abbots from various abbeys. Bright light streamed slant into the chamber of the tribunal, escaping from the parted gray clouds, the large windowpanes throwing shadow crosses before a kneeling and shackled warrior.

  As Inquisitor General, the Bishop of Lincoln stood with parchment before him reading aloud in his Norman-French accent the crimes and offences declared, to include sorcery, witchcraft, murder, and rape. As the accounts and preparations ended, the robed bishops were seated in their chairs and kept their eyes upon Ban Talah as the questioning was given over to an experienced hand at debate and deceptive trickery.

  As a theologian from France known only as Poitiers, he had limitless ways and so-called witnesses, and used them all. Ban Talah had but one witness to call upon in her defense and hoped Bran would have flown back by now with his letter. Her companions were in too much risk to believe they themselves, being northern English, Welsh, and Scottish, could speak for her and not be arrested under the same charges, this being a Norman court as it was. She would be her sole defense, and knowing the power of the Cardinal had already resolved a verdict of death in all the judges’ malicious and hateful hearts, she could already predict her outcome. Whoever this Cardinal was, he seemed to know Ban Talah well. Well enough to know her strengths and weaknesses, almost intimately.

  She had been chained in a holding cell in the catacombs under the church for three weeks now, away from fresh air. Most light came only from a small grate of one foot by two. It was a meager shaft now and again from the occasional sunlight, her only constant companion. King Henry had issued his presence in the court by matter of State, and her appearance had obviously shocked him. She felt heartsick her king had to see her this way. She had grown weaker and more tired. The strength of her answers had diminished under the questions of rape. Talah was only slightly surprised to see Juetta was alive and well, and the prosecutor’s witness to the charge. Juetta’s name and voice now only embittered and hardened Talah’s glares, glares distant and far away, not once looking upon the features of the woman she loved not so long ago.

  It was obvious the Church was extremely intolerant of affections between men yet held an almost distant reply to the mysteries surrounding the intimacies between women. In fact, it was almost an unspoken acceptance unless it was coupled with charges of heresy, thus stiffening the act as rape. Sadly, this was a dangerous combination of circumstances for her.

  “Have you never been with a man?” Poitiers asked her.

  Candor and fine intelligence sparked her eye as she grinned to Poitiers. “I’m with all of you, aren’t I?”

  The court echoed with muffled chuckles and murmurs.

  “Allow me to redress the question,” Poitiers said, ill humored. “Has a man ever bed you?”

  “Is that a proposition?”

  Again, the laughs burst forth.

  “Good show, Talah!” the king cried. “God, but I do love that woman!”

  Poitiers took up the matter brought before him by the Bishop of Hastings of the miraculous healing of the two monks.

  “Judges, I bring before you now the testimony of a witness who most recently had, with his own eyes, seen the accused raise two men from the dead—as Christ did to Lazarus!” The court was incensed. A storm of exclamations raged with every tongue. Poitiers had to wait for the noise to subside before speaking again. To Talah, he asked, “These two, monks as they were, were they already dead when you came upon them?”

  “To the casual observation, I am most certain they were.”

  “Surely, you cannot deny seeing the fatal injuries bestowed upon the two by a certain Lord Chamberlain, Tennison?” Before Talah could answer, Poitiers turned to the judges. “Who, as it will be noted by the writs of this court, has most recently been found to have taken his own life.”

  To this, Talah was most puzzled. “How convenient.”

  “Answer the question,” the Inquisitor General barked.

  “I saw the boy and old man struck down, aye,” she said solemnly.

  “So,” continued Poitiers, “tell the court how it was that you resurrected them.”

  “You do not have the capacity to understand what you would hear and would assume it other than its intention.”

  Poitiers leaned over to her. “Indulge the court.”

  Talah glared into his eyes angrily. “Do not try to have knowledge of which is beyond your wit, Poitiers.”

  “Answer the question!”

  Talah regained her composure. “I will not.”

  “Do you deny you raised them from the dead?”

  “To be exact, I returned breath back into their beings.”

  Threats and accusations burst forth from the bishops’ tongues, and Poitiers added to them. “A devil’s answer, my lords.” To which he continued to incite the flames. “With storm and lightning from your fingertips you returned breath to them, is this not so?”

  Talah had a feeling he was going to make the most out of what she said.

  “Do you consider yourself a Christian, Ban Talah?”

  This was a notable test, if not a trap. Talah allowed it for the sake of her people. “I am a Celtic-Christian.”

  “And do all Celts perform such acts as raising the dead?”

  “No.”

  “Do you pray to God Almighty, Jesus Christ, and Mary?”

  “Among a few others, aye.”

  “And have you ever spoken with God?”

  Talah was suspicious as to where he was going with his questioning. She decided to humor him. “Aye.”

  “Really?” A gleam arose in Poitiers eye. “Tell the court what God sounds like.”

  “Not what you think.”

  “So, you’re telling me God talks to you? Perhaps through thunderbolts and lightning? By raising the dead?”

  The Inquisitor General stood and lowered his fist down on the railing before him amid the rising gasps and whispers. “Poitiers, this is blasphemy. I say finish this!”

  “Are you saying what you did was an act of God?” Poitiers added.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Would you denounce your Celtic ways and submit to the Christian Church of Rome?” shouted a bishop from his seat.

  Talah eyed all the flaring faces and shaking fists. “Would you drain the blood from your veins?” she growled.

  “The Celts’ ways are the Devil’s ways,” Poitiers shouted, narrowing the trap. Tossing articles to each judge, he continued. “The proof, gentlemen, of this woman named Ban Talah before you being a Celt is obvious. She is the epitome of all so called Celtic-Christians that the Church has denied by their practices and these articles before you the proof of her sorcery, of an inciter of men to senseless war to drain the commonwealth of its economy, the spillage of human blood, a rapist of innocent women, and an idolater
of fictitious gods and goddesses, a conjurer of most evil and dark magic. Need I say, my lords, it is our accused who has, no doubt, with her dealings in such sorcery enchanted this land into the wintry abyss you now see before you.”

  In one stroke, Talah’s fight for her people and her king was twisted to foul, wretched poison. Her people, shamed of their traditions, beliefs and healings, were considered ungodly by the world’s most powerful enforcer of right religion simply because it could not admit its most powerful fear; that their way of prayer and belief wasn’t the only way. Now, Talah felt the pain of defeat such as she had never felt it before. Even as a rise of vengeance embraced her soul.

  “You’ll hang on that twisted tongue of yours, Poitiers,” she seethed. “By God, I swear it.”

  “Submit your Celtic faith to the decision of the Church!” the Inquisitor General shouted.

  Talah was well aware of his intentions. As all the Celtic kingdoms may know Ban Talah well, one to deny her blood she was not.

  “Deny the Celtic faith and submit!” another bishop shouted.

  “Else you’ll be abandoned by the Church and pronounced a heretic.” added the Inquisitor General.

  “The Church has already abandoned my people,” she answered sorely. “And with or without your blessings and edicts, we Celtic-Christians will not be denied. We were born Celtic-Christians and we shall die as Celtic-Christians!”

  The guards were called to their places and ordered to take the accused back to her cell. The Bishop of Lincoln’s anger had resurged and he flung a hand to the dismissal of the court. Talah was jerked from her knees, the chains clanking heavily about her neck, wrists, and ankles. Her weakness was such that the guards had to literally carry her with her feet now and again dragging behind through the corridors and to the stairs of the catacombs.

  LATER, KING HENRY paced wildly in his antechamber before the presence of all the bishops who had been ordered to his palace.

  “You can’t be serious,” Henry raged.