by A. L. Duncan
“These Celts embody pagan folklore of their own gods and deities into the Roman practice and mass, Sire,” the Bishop of London argued.
“Of which they have done so to the approval of Rome since the Great Conquest of 1066!”
“Not approved,” the bishop corrected. “Tolerated.”
“It is a shameful and devilish degradation of the Christian Church.” the Bishop of Hastings added.
Henry was genuinely outraged. “But, to execute Ban Talah?”
The Bishop of Lincoln stepped forward coolly. “To execute the accused for her betrayal of the Christian Church is essential to the cleansing of this country of the sin of heresy, and shall stand as an example to all who practice their pagan rituals and still honor their Celtic blood.”
“God’s blood!” Henry stormed. “Does not the Holy Book speak of gifts and blessings unto his people?”
The Bishop of Lincoln drew his eyes to tiny slits. “Do not pretend to start quoting from the Bible to us, your majesty. Twisting the word of God from its relative meaning is in itself heresy. I should take better care, Sire, if I were you,” he added with grave intent.
“Why, you hypocritical, self-righteous, pompous ass!” The king’s voice was thick with threatening overtones. The bishop replied not, but stewed silently. “You are no more fit to lecture me on living the written word than I am to you for all you’ve done. None of you!”
The Bishop of Hastings decided to break the stare down by stepping forward. With a clearing of his throat, he nervously continued the argument. “Sire, this woman is obviously a Druid priestess who conjures up lighting. No one but our Father in Heaven can do that, lest he be Satan, himself.”
“You cannot execute this woman,” demanded Henry after a pause. “The only thing you would be proving here is subsequent repression and possible conflict between my Normans and these people of England, Scotland and the whole of Wales. Don’t you realize the only resurrection on this land will not be your cleansing, but every Welsh and Scottish kingdom turning against me with ceaseless rampaging? Killing off this woman will incite a war greater than the Conquest, with which I have little men to supply. Great God, we’ll be slaughtered!”
“The concerns of the State are inconsequential to the Church,” said a voice from behind the many bishops.
The robed figures stepped aside and bowed reverently to the appearance of the Cardinal. His features were shadowed under the wide brim of a tasseled, scarlet hat. With white-gloved hands folded before him he continued in his usual calm and casual tone. “If the Church were to decree this pagan free of all offences and sin, imagine what religious conflicts we would be standing before in Rome and every Christian country for that matter. And a state without Christianity is a state without God. Surely, this is not what you ask of your kingdom, Your Majesty. Is it?”
Henry scowled and turned away from the dark features staring upon him and plopped weak-legged upon his chair, arms limp in his lap, face twisted with hatred. “How dare you stand before me with words no king on this earth can defend himself to, and to gnarl my edicts about like they were some toy to serve your wicked plots. You make me sick, all of you.”
“A king is but a shepherd to his sheep, Sire,” answered the Cardinal. “Yet, they are God’s sheep he keeps. And keep them well you must. But to turn your back on your word and thus the word of God just to keep harmony within your different flocks is to be as Lot’s wife. Such is not befitting a king and his kingdom to be a pillar of salt. You must instead be a pillar of wisdom and sound judgment.” He eyed the king darkly, and after a moment, added, “You must stand by your edicts, Majesty. Your crown demands it.”
With that, the Cardinal bowed and turned to depart, the bishops following behind in procession. With the last bishop through the door, the creaking hinges were silenced with a heavy thump as the great door was closed, its echoes radiating painfully in Henry’s temples. The queen, Eleanor, stepped out from the weighty curtains behind Henry’s seat, her presence not in the least surprising to him.
“Well, Madame, did you get quite enough an earful for all your gossips?” Henry spit with enmity.
Eleanor placed a hand lightly upon the edge of his chair and glanced down her nose at his apparent, bruised sympathies. “Perhaps, I should withdraw my offer of Aquitaine to you, my husband, considering you allow a few robes to dictate your tongue. What, if anything, can you possibly offer my land with such lethargic leniency?”
“Do not threaten me, Madame!” he cried.
“It is a threat only if you choose not to act upon it, isn’t it?”
“You have a contemptuous tongue.”
“One that would dare do more than yours. For God’s sake, Henry, do something!”
He replied with much sorrow. “I am doing something, Madame. I am washing my hands of this.”
THE CARDINAL LED the group of bishops through the square toward the cathedral, undaunted by the shift of bitter cold the winds carried. Wincing at the icy sting upon his face, the Bishop of Lincoln walked beside his lord and spoke cautiously, pulling a roll of parchment from his sleeve.
“Your Eminence,” he said. “This letter was not mentioned before our king. What are we to do?”
“We are to do nothing,” answered the Cardinal.
“But it states clearly His Holy Father, Pope Alexander, has granted a pardon for all the crimes and offences the accused, Ban Talah, has committed.”
The Cardinal stopped the troop with a wave of his hand and turned to face them. “We must keep in mind the Holy Father’s current circumstances. It is unfortunate, indeed, that His Holiness has been estranged from the protection of Rome and quite possibly the Church itself for so long a period it would be prudent to our belief that he perhaps has been persuaded darkly in his exile.”
“This certainly seems astonishing,” expressed the Bishop of London. “To free a blasphemer?”
“Indeed, it would in no way have been conceded or even conceivable by the Holy Father,” the Cardinal continued gravely. “Even in exile he has a duty to the Church.”
The Bishop of Hastings quickly pointed to the pope’s seal. “But the seal—“
“No,” the Cardinal argued. “I’m afraid this looks suspiciously like someone’s attempt to find good reason.”
“A forgery?” gasped one.
“A cunning persuasion,” remarked the Bishop of Lincoln.
The Cardinal flippantly discarded the parchment. “How else could a letter be brought across the sea so swiftly?” His dark eyes curiously met those of a white raven’s as it perched nearby on a bare branch of an apple tree. Eyes squinted at the bird with malicious intent and pulled the paper back from the bishop’s grip, smiling with a black heart. He paced over to a pile of burning rubbish. “It is my intention, gentlemen, as over-seer of this tribunal to set to work immediately the orders of the Holy Father in Rome, Paschal III. We cannot delay. We shall proceed with the accused and her sentence of execution upon the next morning.”
He turned a sly glance from the group’s study of the disintegrating letter to hear the raven’s squawk before a hasty departure. He smiled victoriously as The Holy Seal melted its blood-red wax to bubble and dissipate. “I shall leave her punishment up to you, gentlemen,” the Cardinal concluded before turning on heel.
The Cardinal’s robes swarmed in a flurry about his figure as the wind kicked up dust to swirl and hide him as an apparition, leaivng all the bishops to puzzle among themselves.
A DEEP SILENCE endured within the catacombs, weighing heavily upon the spectral dankness. Talah’s arms were chained to the creviced wall above her head as she sat upon the dirt staring through her tasseled strands of long bangs at a rat from across the room. The rat stood on hind legs and twitched its whiskers in acknowledgment. It then twisted an eye to spy movement from the corridor. Talah’s eyes squinted to recognize the silhouette that danced on the wall opposite a newly lit torch. It was the tasseled brim hat of the Cardinal.
“Return to yo
ur posts,” the dark voice ordered quietly. “I should wish to be left alone with the prisoner.”
Shuffled feet dispersed as the Cardinal moved from around the corner and into view, the rat skittering off into the dark corner of the cell. A spark from the Cardinal’s raised finger lit a nearby sconce. Turning a humored eye to the rat, the Cardinal raised an eyebrow.
“Your provisions seem adequate.”
Talah did not honor him with a reply.
The Cardinal seemed very content at the sight of Ban Talah, weakened by the unrestorative forces of the earth. “The mighty warrior,” he said. “Conquered at last by her own pity.” He knelt down and drew his eyes to hers.
Eyes Talah had not looked upon since her vision drew a dark, abyssal hole within and about her soul, grasping on tightly as if to choke a hold she could not shake. A chilling emptiness bound by space and time. Venomously he drew back. A grin played at the corner of his thin lips.
“Yes...you do remember. I’m flattered. How is it you wonder that a mere mortal as I can know the weakness of a half-mortal such as the likeness of Ban Talah, who appears to be invincible?” The pause was a heavy cloak upon her consciousness. “So, how is it I know your weakness?”
Talah’s eyes fell to slits and her jaw tightened as the Cardinal slowly reached up and pulled off the wide brimmed hat.
“Because I am your weakness.”
Suddenly, a light wavered and bathed the shape-change of the Cardinal’s figure to one that Talah could only cringe in shock to.
“Juetta?”
Talah’s chains tensed and chinked as she clenched her fists. With white knuckles and bated breath she tearfully cried out in anguish and torment.
“Oh,” Juetta cried out in partnership to Talah’s lament. “A heart torn by the greatest living wound. The sword of deception at its most triumphant thrust. How it is lovely to hear your hate of passions deceitful, delicious feminine lusts.” Juetta added, “You should have listened to Danann.”
Juetta knelt startling close and ran a finger down Talah’s moist cheek. “To hear, after all these years, you were alive was indeed a surprise,” she whispered seductively. “At first, I thought you’d ruin everything. But, I decided it best to make you my greatest asset.”
Talah couldn’t bear to look upon Juetta’s face. She could not look within those green eyes that once captivated her. She felt only sickened at her touch. “Why have you done this?” she managed to spit out.
“After all this time, you still don’t know me? France is my home, Isadora. Do you really believe I would wait for your king to defeat mine?” She coughed a laugh. “You taught me everything I needed to know. How to lead an army of my own into battle. How even to use some of your Druidic incantations. Everything else I learned from your old mentor in Burgundy, God rest his soul.”
At the last, Talah jerked her head about and eyed her wickedness angrily. Indeed, this woman had murdered many hundreds. What is one more old man to her?
“Truth, I knew I could help France by destroying all that your precious King Henry has built his kingdom on: Celtic blood. Any fool would know the way to conquer a people is by their spirit. It has been so easy. And destroying their greatest warrior, Ban Talah, with such ferocity and fanfare will be the crowning jewel to my treasure. The Celtic brood shall forever be broken as you filter your mortal half to ashes.” Eagerly, she pulled herself closer and drew heated lips upon Talah’s turned cheek. “You’re shivering, my love,” she hissed. “Grief is such a cold flower, a crocus of contentment under the snows that will mark your companions’ graves.”
Talah clutched onto the chains and lifted herself enough to violently knee Juetta away from her, tossing the vixen against the hard ground.
“Damn your soul to Hell for what you’ve done!” Talah raged. Lightning flashed in her eyes with what little strength she had left. “I would rather see you die horribly than to be touched by your poisoned flesh! My soul shall never look upon you again but to spit upon your own miserable grave! Leave me, witch!”
Juetta was clearly stunned, yet composed herself well and stood. Her face twisted with diabolical intent as she replaced the hat coolly upon her head, her features shape shifting back to the familiar devilish cast of the Cardinal. Turning to leave, he stopped with an afterthought. With glove removed, his long nailed fingers reached up to his cheek and tore the flesh. He drew his hand back into its glove casually.
The Cardinal glanced over his shoulder, smiling at Talah’s heated glare, fresh blood trickling down his cheek and neck.
Talah’s rage had left her even weaker than before. With her head dropped sullenly, she did not watch him leave yet heard voices in the corridor.
“Your Eminence!” cried a guard. “You’ve been attacked!”
Calmly, he replied, “Give her ten lashes to remember it by.”
THE FROZEN GROUND met Talah’s thrown form brutally. Her chained wrists were jerked in the air forcing her to hang against a splintery post, feet scraping to gain footing. The guards attached her chains to a crossbeam allowing clearance for her fingers to wrap around the chains. Two soldiers stood to either side of her back with heavy whips unfurled in the icy winds that seemed to howl and pick up at her presence. She was on display for all in the square to see and passersby halted in their tracks at the familiar sight of the warrior. Others ran to their neighbors and homes crying out at the spectacle.
At first crack, the whip seared across her back, ripping a gash in the leather vest worn loosely upon her weary form. Again and again the soldiers drew back their whips. Hands clutched tightly the metal links of chain with each burning stroke, blood streaking from her worn wrists and palms only to match the stripes upon her soft back. A hardened warrior, she did not cry out even at such torture. Her human form was not so tough, however, to hold back fleshly wounds.
Townsfolk stood helpless around the scene, some numb to the cold about them, grieving for her, others looking on with faces of hatred. Loosened from her hold, Ban Talah staggered and fell to the ground.
What were they all thinking, she wondered, these people of England? They were Normans most, and she a Scot, a Celtic-Christian. She had lived her life knowing she was an immortal thread that connected the heavens and earth with the simple breath of mortal blood. Ban Talah, the symbol of their land, the spirit of their diversity, their deity of freedom. She never knew what the Normans really thought of her. Now, they could see her as she truly was. A simple flesh and blood vessel, whose mortal fiber was nothing greater than what could be contained in the flow of matter. Statues after time were broken and their ruins a haphazard clump of rock for creeping ivy, with their reason for worship forgotten through the pages of histories past. The crowd slowly dispersed. This statue had lost its luster, as the human was only human after all.
Talah’s limp form was carried into her cell and tossed upon the floor like a slaughtered animal for the feeding of the wolves. Chains clambered to startle the quiet and scatter the dust. After a long while, Talah lifted her weighty manacles and with much effort rolled over on her back, the dirt pressed into her wounds, her blood gritty. Lying there as she did, half-conscious, she concentrated and closed her eyes. There was one more journey she had to make. She drew in a shallow breath and let it out slowly.
King Henry was in his den and had just dismissed a courier when a glint of light caught the corner of his eye. Twisting about, he jumped, startled at Ban Talah’s apparition.
“Christ, woman!” he cried. “Must you haunt my halls so?”
A second glance showed Talah a ghostly figure, pale and troubled; much unlike her usual brilliance of stout warrior and good stock.
“What have they done to you?” he asked finally, brow twisted in sorrow. “My God, you look dead already.”
“I haven’t much time,” Talah replied gravely. “You must listen to me, my king.”
“Talah,” he interrupted. “Can you ever forgive me?”
She smiled weakly. “You have not failed me, my
king. You have only made me believe in you all the more, which is why we must preserve your sovereignty. It is imperative you convince my people of your loyalty to them after I am gone.”
“Convince them? How on earth am I ever to convince them?”
“A festival.”
Henry slumped on the edge of his writing desk and drew a questioning eye. “A festival. At a time like this? My God, but you’ve a morbid sense of humor.”
“A Celtic festival, my king,” she corrected him. “To show your word is true to all your people. Allow a festival in London for all Celts. So they may sing their songs, tell their tales, and sell their wares. I must remind you to not wait too long, Sire. There will surely be much uprising in their hearts. Quench their sorrows and your honor shall again be justified by your compassion.”
With great sadness Henry looked upon Talah’s faltering light. “So, is this it, then? Have they finally done it—killed you off from my presence?”
“Nothing is ever certain, your majesty.”
“What then is?”
Talah didn’t answer.
Henry’s face twisted as if he were going to burst into tears. He shook them off with a curse. “Leave me, Talah. Please, I can’t bear to look at you.” He stumbled away with his back to her. “Seeing you only tears at my very being.”
A pause. Then, solemnly, she replied. “Remember, you shall always be my king.”
Henry twisted about, her light fading to nothingness. He cried out to her. She could hear it echo painfully within the silent walls of her cell as she carried his lament with her back to her body.
It was a long and arduous night, as Talah knew it would be. Then, morning came with the first sounds of bells tolling she had managed to hear since being in this haggard, cold pit. She had lain where she was thrown and moved but little. Her rat companion squirmed beside her and sniffed at her skin, only to twitch a whisker in repulsion.
“Well, you don’t smell so good yourself,” she murmured.
