by A. L. Duncan
“God dwells in those that love peace, for peace is beloved. Yes? I then believe you know, abbot, that God is far off from the contentious, and those who are full of malice.” Talah placed a compassionate hand upon his shoulder and smiled at him, for his conscience seemed to clear a little. “It is my duty to play the role of the world and all in it. Your duty is to honor yours. Go and tell your people if they cannot engage with tolerance to go home. This is a city where all its inhabitants are under the same law, and that law is here today with his standards flying high in praise of the spirit of the Celtic people. You would do well to learn from one another.”
Before departing, the abbot held his head high and drew an eye to Talah with astonished curiosity. “May I ask who you are, really?”
“I am flesh, blood, and spirit. And a Celtic-Christian. I pray to God, Jesus, and Mary as you do.”
The man looked upon her as one with an earnest curiosity upon a distant star. She then waited as the abbot departed into the rancorous crowd before drifting into the nave, grateful she was alone. She could hear the settling quiet from a dispersing people, and breathed a sigh of relief. The air echoed a peace that surrounded her every footfall and the breath of serenity calmed her heart. Candles were everywhere, their amber glow flickering upon the naked walls and stark beams. It was a place of sacredness and stillness of soul, but it did not ease her troubled thoughts. It was here, upon this holy ground, she felt drawn to her knees in a sigh of thanks and indebtedness as she spoke to God in her Gaelic tongue, head pressed against her drawn sword.
“Grant this soul pardon, for you know my truths. How can I be guardian of all Scotland, England and Wales with so parched a faith against this I am fighting? Hoping against everything that through their faith I may find my own truth. They follow out of desperate estate. And I...how am I to lead them all? By all mercies, why did you not stay my blood and allow me death? I realize I may be dishonoring your wisdoms as I speak of peace, yet carry a sword. But, have tender heart to those innocent, I pray thee. If fortunes so be cast and it is to be my direction, grant missionary spirits and angels as well as your persuasions be with us, victorious. Holy Mary and Brigid, carry the fallen. For there will be, I fear...many.”
Talah descended the steps of the church with her companions standing before her with anticipation. She paused only briefly before she took Lugh’s reins from Mac’s hand and lifted herself into the saddle. The others followed along silently. The quietude of the church square rested well in Talah’s heart. It was a small victory in a long struggle to come, she felt.
A ruckus began to brew within the midst of the festival, and to Talah’s ears King Henry was a participator.
“Keep your eyes open,” Talah instructed sternly.
“You think she’s here?” Danann asked.
Talah had felt Juetta’s presence since entering London. It had been as if her breath was heard upon the winds as an unclean spirit and brushed upon Talah’s cheek, dreadful in its cursing. “She is here,” she seethed. “She’ll not want to be seen just yet. She will be in a stranger’s guise.”
“What sort of stranger?” Brodie asked.
Talah shrugged. “Could be a man or woman, as before.”
Moya scanned the mass of people and sighed deeply. “Well, that narrows it down.”
Talah eyed a tanner shave down a piece of leather with a two-handled currier’s knife. His eyes met her briefly before a boy and his companions staggered by on stilts, laughing in their glee. A clattering old loom caught her attention next with an elderly Welsh woman smiling at her from behind a red and green woolen.
“Let’s split up,” said Talah. “Brodie, you and Mac take the left side of the street. Moya, you take the right. Danann, you come with me.”
Brodie seemed overwhelmed by the mass of faces all unique unto themselves. “But, just how are we to know when and if we see her?”
“Follow your instincts,” Talah replied. “Not your eyes.”
“My bet would be to find and follow the king’s lads,” Mac suggested. “She’ll show herself soon enough if they are to be the targets.”
“Easy for you to say, if you know what they look like,” Brodie scoffed.
Mac grumbled something under his breath and dragged him along by his nape, departing within the deluge of cloaked figures and ox carts.
Talah was pleased, if not impressed, at the many local shopkeepers and peddlers who kept their businesses open if only for the greed of making a day’s wage to sell their wares.
A spice grocer barked out his offers to passers-by. “Four pence, five pounds of salt! Ay, I’ve got vinegar! Sell them by the big jar, I will! Pepper at only six pence an ounce...”
Blood froze amid filth and feathers to a butcher’s axe, and chickens and ducks floundered on strung ropes, their legs trussed. Danann looked humored at a Welshman’s fussings about his chosen duck that cronked and chose his finger first, drawing blood.
Another peddler was selling boar heads and roasted swans, to which the broth alone wafted in the air to stir hunger pangs in Talah’s belly.
Talah dabbled by a few more merchants selling furs, skins, and swords, eyeing the sellers and buyers alike, scrutinizing their every move most casually. Danann stopped to admire a polished long sword, its lines simple and thick. Talah was more interested in eyeing the merchant.
The merchant elbowed a knight and cackled. “Would you look at that?” He called out to Danann, “Ay, don’t you think you ought to be looking at a sword more to your size, lass? Even on horse you’d be dragging it.”
She seemed oblivious to his heckling, ignoring all but the sword’s weight and feel of its well-made handle.
The merchant stepped over to her and pulled a much smaller blade from the canvassed wall. Holding it up to her he said, “Why don’t you try one you can handle?”
Below them lay a pile of rocks that was used by the merchant to demonstrate the strength of the blades. Danann at the time had been looking down her nose at the level of the blade before raising a stern eye to the man’s sardonic grin. With one cunning swoop she parried the merchant’s sword to fly from his grip and one-handed the long blade to slice a stone in half, driving its tip deep into the ground. The merchant stood chagrined, his own blade riveted into a tent pole. Nonchalantly, Danann grinned at the man while handing him the sword.
“Very nice,” she said, and walked away.
The knight ruffled his brow at first then burst out in laughter.
Talah departed alongside her with Lugh’s reins wrapped lightly about her fingers. “Was that necessary?”
Danann shrugged off her comment. “He had it coming to him.”
Talah snuffed at the idea.
The two made their way to a nearby Highland cow as it was slowly turned over a pit fire, its juices dripping onto the stoking flames, hissing and spitting. Talah drew in a deep inhale as the rich beef aroma filled her lungs and ignited her taste buds.
“Hungry?” she asked Danann.
“Starving.”
Talah drew the beef merchants attention and flipped a coin in his direction. Another hand reached out and snatched the coin before it landed in the merchant’s outstretched paw.
Moya laid the coin back in Talah’s hand and spoke with urgency. “You’d better come see this.”
A makeshift stage had been set with two persons atop the platform, overlooking the jovial throng before them. A man and a woman each gaily swaggered and strutted, telling loudly and with much animation the story of Conn Cet Chathach, Conn of a Hundred Battles. Among the crowd stood King Henry and his two young sons, Henry and Richard. Talah stepped through the crowd to get a better look as the king was encouraged to step up on stage. Moya and Danann stood fast as Talah gestured them to allow the king leave.
The crowd cheered as the woman on stage smiled, bowing to the king. “Your Majesty, Conn Cet Chathach!” Uproarious laughter echoed, and she raised her voice to continue the storytelling with great elaborateness. “One day th
e great Conn stepped out onto his mighty rampart and saw a stone at his feet and trod upon it.”
The woman laid a stone before Henry and gestured for him to lay a foot upon it. As he did so, the man beside her let out a humorous round of bellows. Again, the crowd laughed.
“Conn asked his Druid priest why the stone screamed out,” said the woman. “And after a time of strong divination and thought of fifty days and three, the Druid was able to answer his king.”
“It is,” announced the man flagrantly, “the Stone of Fal, known as a rock under a king.” He gestured with obvious and humorous intent to the rock under Henry’s foot, to which Henry, himself, cackled.
Moya crossed her arms and leaned over to Talah in a whisper. “What do you make of it?”
Talah scrutinized both the woman and man on stage. “Could be either one. Could be neither.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Juetta works alone. Not even the captain of the Fleur de Lyon knew about her. That makes me curious about even a public display.”
“Yet, as you said, she believes you dead. With nothing to hinder her, why not make the grand finale to honor her France by the public assassination of England’s king and his heirs?”
Talah stared at the actors’ faces deeply. “Still...” she breathed. “I must admit, something does not feel right.”
She caught Mac and Brodie’s attention and drew a circle in the air. The two warriors nodded and began looking into the crowd. She gestured for Moya to walk the left side while she, herself, eyed the right of the stage.
On stage, the woman leaned down at her feet and lifted up two bent and shaven sticks of wood. “The Goddess of Sovereignty gave then food to the mighty Conn. The rib of an ox she gave him and it was twenty-four feet long and eight feet from the arch to the ground. The rib of a hog he was also given. And it was twelve feet long and five feet from the arch to the ground. Then, the Goddess asked Lugh to whom this cup of dergflaith, of red ale, be given, and the phantom Lugh answered her.”
“He named every prince,” the man added. “From the time of Conn onwards, and the scribe Cesarn wrote them down on four staves of yew.” Four small branches he passed on to the woman.
“Then the phantom and his house disappeared,” the woman said.
As she spoke, the man indeed disappeared through a trap door on the platform, leaving only his cloak to float into a heap atop the stage after a burst of smoke. The crowd gasped with excitement.
“And to Conn,” she added loudly, “the vessel, the vat, and the staves remained. The Venture and Journey of Conn of The Hundred Battles!”
The crowd erupted into joyous cheers for it was a good story performed well. Even the king enjoyed the play and his part, waving off the actor’s melodramatic gestures and bows as he descended the stairs. Talah paid little attention to the king until the echo of cathedral bells were heard, making her heart stop. She knew the bells rang in the afternoon to call those of the cloth to prayer. A feeling of dread overtook her. Widely known, it was, as the only time King Henry attended mass, and never in all the years that she’d known him had Henry not been in the cathedral before the bells ever tolled.
Talah twisted about, clawing and pushing her way through the people as the king stooped down with arms outstretched, awaiting his youngest as the boy ran up to him. It was all in slow motion as Talah saw the flash of a blade drawn from behind King Henry’s back as the child drew nearer. Talah could only hope with all her might that she would outrun the boy. With one giant leap, it was Moya who tumbled before the dark eyes of the king and scooped the boy in her arms, falling aside and saving the lad from his ill fate.
Hardly disarmed at the sight of Ban Talah standing so near and clearing the crowd, the king stood and threw the knife toward the other son. Before Talah could react, Danann appeared from behind the boy and pushed him down. The boy was saved by one motion. However, Talah witnessed with much anguish the blade catching Danann square in the heart. The force drove her to halt with buckled knees, falling limp against the cold, frozen ground. She was dead before the dirt arose.
“Danann!” Talah cried.
The figure that was King Henry quickly shape-shifted to the familiarity that was Juetta. Black eyes taunted Talah’s, which glimmered with tear mist. Searing hatred stared back. Juetta laughed. The crowd dispersed in terror, aghast at such sorcery and disconcerted at the sight of Ban Talah yet alive.
“What is one to do?” Juetta asked viciously. “Save the boys, or save the friend? It still came out well, don’t you think? I never liked her anyway.”
With that, Talah howled with anger and sliced the air with drawn sword. The air only, for Juetta had disappeared as the actor on stage had done. Only, there were no trap doors to be found around Juetta’s cloak, just the haunting tempests of seductive, demonic voices were heard.
“I knew you were alive, my love,” the many voices of Juetta whispered. “Our game is yet to be over.”
The king’s soldiers took the boys to safety. Word spread that the king was indeed at mass. This all made looking upon the fallen figure of her beloved friend no more the easier. Talah fell to her knees and lamented angrily. Bewildered in her agony she cradled Danann to her bosom. She made a loud cry to the heavens, the echo and thunder of it ringing throughout the countryside. Finally, with contempt in her eyes, Talah clasped onto the dagger’s handle and yanked the blade from Danann’s still breast. Tossing it aside she placed a hand upon the bloody wound and closed her eyes.
Mac grabbed Talah’s hand and startled her to gaze upon his stern features. “Don’t do it!” he barked. She shoved him aside brutally but he grabbed her shoulder and forced her to look upon him again. “Listen to me, lass. If you do this, if you bring her back, your power will be gone and Juetta will have won.”
Talah was beside herself, her soul torn from its moorings as a ship against a white squall. She shook her head, wrathful in her helplessness, then pushed away from him and staggered to her feet. The winds brushed her hair wildly about as her steps were drunken and her eyes teared, unfocused. She stood there and knew Mac spoke the truth. She couldn’t dare bring Danann back. She was also conscious of the fact Juetta’s plan had been foiled. The king and his sons were safe for now. This left her time. There was still time to save Danann.
Talah twisted about with renewed determination and whistled for Lugh. The horse quickly came to her side as she bent down to sweep Danann up in her arms.
“What are you going to do?” Moya asked mournfully.
“Take the scroll from Danann’s saddle and meet me at the marked spot.” Eyeing the soft, blonde hair whisping from Danann’s lifeless form, Talah added, “I may not be able to help her, but I know someone who can.”
Chapter Ten
BAN TALAH JOURNEYED back to where she had found her own healing, back to Newcastle Abbey. Travel through the folds of dense fog laid a path unseen for the long hours to endure. The long, mournful hours with Danann held tightly against her torso. Loving memories sprang up at her as drifts dispersed on the plains, of Danann’s playful smile and devilish wiles. The many nights she and Danann would race up to the rocky crags. Talah could still recall the sincere bond cast between them. A bond felt even now, and a death still denied.
She held Danann’s head close, laying a cheek against her blonde trusses. “You’re not going anywhere, do you hear me? You’re going to stay right here with me.”
She spurred Lugh on, the snows kicking up in fervent reply in its modest reverence to the icy ebb of sea below. The bare trees that stood kindly by whispered in the calm air, unmoved as Roman statues on either side of the steep, winding path that led to the familiar courtyard of the abbey. Thomas Becket had issued the abbey again full of life, teaming with monks and nuns and their songs of chants and laborious tasks. It was believed, being a Saxon as he was, Thomas Becket restored the abbey with new Celtic-Christian blood to renew the hope and faith Ban Talah had tried so hard to defend, and he himself felt akin to.
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br /> The face of an old friend peeked from a monk’s gray hood as Talah pulled back on the reins. The old monk held onto Lugh’s bridle as Talah jumped down and slid Danann’s limp weight into her arms.
“Talah,” he breathed, joyfully at first. After a quick sweep of his hand over Danann’s body he shuddered. His eyesight had all but failed him, but the color of Lugh and the happy nudge of his nose upon his back told him the figure standing before him indeed was Ban Talah. “Lugh. There, there.”
“Brother Erolf,” Talah replied solemnly. “I need to find Bran.”
Feeling the shoulder armor and braided hair, he knew whom she carried. “Your friend.”
Old Erolf was a sage in the druidic ways and knew what Talah meant to do with the lifeless form. Bran was significant not only in the respect of being Talah’s messenger and guide, but he was also a respected Ancestor whose ancient ways of healing had been brought down through the ages and taught only to a few. Bran’s role was to be the voice of the Ancient Ones, and to request an audience for such a purpose was as to walk before the Tuatha themselves. Erolf stepped back and knit a brow at Talah for a moment, squinting toward her with his glazed gray eyes. With a swift flip of his hand he motioned her forward.
“Come. I’ll take you.”
Erolf turned and quickly made his way across the courtyard despite the lean of weight on his short cane. Talah followed close behind. Erolf stopped just outside the great doors of the nave and heaved his body against them, bringing a kneeling Bran out of his meditative prayer. Standing, he crossed himself and turned around. Talah stood close before him with Danann’s body still cradled in her aching arms.
She met his eyes sternly and sympathetically, misted in her resolve. “Save her.”
Bran closed his eyes with a painful sigh. “Talah, I cannot.”
“Save her!” she cried. She allowed her knees to buckle in anguish as Bran assisted her down with Danann’s weight. Clutching onto her friend, she tearfully looked into Bran’s tender gaze.
