Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  TALAH HAD RISEN at daybreak and started down the hall, to the sound of tower bells, escorted by the abbess.

  “This, I thought, would be the best time to take leave, while the others were called to prayer,” said Talah.

  “Of course, one must not tarry when the threads of fate are tethered to a breath.”

  Talah halted and dropped her head.

  Orla looked at her. “It is a hard thing to believe you may be heading into your last battle. Are you certain this is what you want?”

  “If I do nothing else, this I must do.”

  “Is there nothing you would wish to change?”

  Talah breathed in a deep breath and was distracted from answering by Bran’s presence near the stairs below. She slipped on her gloves and began to descend the stairs toward the courtyard. She paused, then took the last step. They stood and eyed each other in silence, neither one looking comfortable with the moment. Orla descended as Bran embraced Talah lovingly.

  “Thank you for this,” Talah said.

  “Just remember...”

  Talah held him at arm’s length. “I know. You just make sure you keep your end of the bargain,” she smiled darkly. “Then, I’ll have no choice but to keep mine.”

  Bran nodded before retreating quietly out of view. A morning chant had already begun to resound through the corridors. The women then continued down the long path toward the courtyard. Brother Erolf had saddled Lugh and stood awaiting her presence. Talah approached Lugh and smiled as the steed bent forward to touch her forehead with his own. After a few pats and cheek rubs, she then turned to bid farewell to Orla.

  Orla smiled, taking Talah in her embrace. “Saints Mary and Brighid be praised for this blessing. I am forever grateful to have met you.”

  Talah pulled back and met her eyes with sincere admiration. “And I you. As God is my witness, I shall never see before me a greater woman than you.”

  Orla’s noble head raised with a smile. “My blessings go with you, Ban Talah. God grant you victory.”

  Talah took the reins from Erolf and lifted herself into the saddle. “For Danann’s sake and that of the land, it shall be so.”

  The abbess raised a fist, a warrior’s salute and Talah returned the salute before turning Lugh about and spurring him onward toward the brim.

  Watching Talah ride up the path Orla slowly lowered her hand. Erolf squinted at a blur, movement departing amidst a splash of sun against the cliffside rock.

  “She was very adamant in her convictions to Bran,” he observed. “I fear she has belief in her vows and given countenance to her actions.”

  Orla kept her head held high. “She is indeed a hallmark of our people, Brother Erolf.”

  “Are you not afraid for her?”

  “I fear not what God has ordained.”

  Chapter Eleven

  TALAH RODE ON to York where she knew of a few gallant knights who would assist her in her cause. Lugh’s hooves clopped and sprayed through puddles upon cobbled streets, dashing past lights from houses and shops that streamed shadows upon the night’s damp pavement. The house of Sir Richard was as any other nobleman’s home, from the entertainment of nobles, foreign and domestic, to intimate celebrations with his wife and six children. It was also the meeting place where knights from various shires would gather together, for no other reason than conviviality. Talah hoped this was one of those nights.

  Stepping inside the door of his stone house, she could hear the raunchy cackles of men’s voices on the second floor. Talah quietly shut the door to ward off any more of the frozen rain and snow seeping onto the anteroom floor, hearing still the heavy patters against the small windows nearby. The second floor served as the solar, or living and dining quarters. Tall enough for any of the men to walk into, the fireplace provided the only light for them to converse by. They seemed quite content to keep among themselves and their cups of mead or wine. Talah leaned against the doorway, in the shadows so not to give herself away. She smiled with arms crossed over her chest and listened in on their hapless bickering.

  “Do you think I might be able to pass myself off as a French courtier?” asked Sir William, standing before the table scrutinizing over a nut between his fingers.

  Sir William of Elgin stood tall and broad shouldered, the back of his head shaved high in Norman fashion. He wore a long sleeved tunic tightly snugged against his out-thrust chest of no massive size. Yet, his posture was that of a proud and well-meaning character, jutting out a clean-shaven chin in pride.

  Young Sir Thomas of Worchester and Sir Ian of Scotland’s Lowland leaned against the back wall, cackling in their loud tongues. “Certainly you would be the invasion of masculinity,” declared Sir Richard of York. All laughed. “I should think, William, you would fetch King Louis a handsome wage,” said Sir Thomas, jesting.

  “A royalty to me is more like it,” boasted William. “Once he sees me he’ll want his whole countrymen to flatter themselves to my design.”

  “Indeed, they’ll admire it, sopped up in their boggy mud,” touted Sir Richard. “Soon after they pluck your sword and send you to God with their own!”

  William frowned to their amused ridicule. “I’m serious!”

  “Oh, how we know.”

  Sir Wayne of Bath sat in a chair beside the hearth. He was much older and grander than the other knights and had lived through the Crusades that took him to the Holy Land. The white hair he wore long and wavy to his collar, and a moustache that thickly hung down either side of his chin in Gaelic fashion. Sir Wayne was proud of his Welsh heritage and felt too old to change his stubborn ways for the passing wiles of some Norman King. But a more loyal knight could not be found anywhere in the kingdom. Sir Wayne had fought every campaign since Talah’s father captained the king’s men.

  He fussed with the threads of his holey shoulder. “Passing yourself off as a loyal countryman under another flag is not as simple as one would believe,” he defended dryly. “I did, however, pass myself off a time or two for a Jew in the Holy Land.”

  Sir Thomas was the youngest and most modernly scholar. His opinions, however, would often grate on the other knight’s nerves. “You, a Jew? Why that’s preposterous! A Saxon such as you could never pass for a Jew. Those people must have been bigger fools than I ever imagined. It’s no wonder the Muslims ran amok through their cities.”

  Sir Wayne smiled with a twinkle in his eye. “Their confidence was easily won when this Saxon spoke their Hebrew as if I had been born in Bethlehem myself. And as for the Muslims, astronomy and mathematics are purely a lavish art to behold, beautiful stories weaved from wise old sages no Englishman could ever hold a candle to, I can tell you that. It is an old trick to be a proper scholar,” he added to the young man’s dismay. “Tricks, my young brazen ignorant, of which are still years above you.”

  The sixth knight, Sir Angus MacDougal, had been quietly standing in a corner sipping his mead and eating from the table. His sudden chuckle drew everyone else to laugh heartily. The room grew dangerously silent as the sound of a tray dropped, and a woman’s gasp echoed near the shadowed stairs. The six men drew their swords as the frightened woman backpedaled away from the dark figure.

  “Come out!” shouted Sir Richard. “Out where we can see you!”

  As Talah walked forward, the light appeared on features that could only bring the men to shutter.

  “Mary, God, and Jesus,” Sir William murmured. “If it isn’t the ghost of Ban Talah!”

  “Not a ghost, Sir William, but a woman of flesh and blood.” Talah tilted an eye to him as she passed him closely. “Paleness does become your features.” William could only swallow hard in reply.

  “Impossible,” breathed Sir Richard.

  “I saw you burn!” Thomas spat.

  “Disappear, not burn,” Talah consoled gently. “Come. Touch my hand.” She smiled to the men whose swords were nervously lifted higher in defense.

  It was old Wayne who defied his own fears and was the first to walk before her.


  “I am not a specter, but a whole being that bleeds and breathes the air as you. I did not die, not as one would believe.”

  “Then what exactly are you that you did not die?” Thomas asked. “A demon?”

  “My young Thomas, now a knight. There are more to the stars and the heavens than in our wits to understand. To such, it is best we leave as a mystery known only to the heavens.”

  Sternly, Sir Wayne faced Talah, his shaking senses showed beneath the quivering lip and tightened jaw. A determined hand reached out and after a pause, took Talah’s in undaunted courage. Finally, with a swell of tears to release his long-abated sorrow, Wayne exclaimed, “My Talah! You are alive!”

  Everyone breathed again and the sparkle came back to Sir Wayne’s grey eyes. Blades were sheathed or set aside.

  “It’s a miracle, it is!” laughed Sir Angus, patting her on the back.

  “It’s a trick, I think,” Sir William barked into his cup of wine.

  “A trick only to fool our enemy,” Talah replied happily. “Indeed, Sir William.”

  Sir Wayne still held Talah’s hand firmly, his body shaking in a sob. Talah sighed and smiled softly, wiping his moist cheek. “Disdain from tears please, my friend.”

  Wayne embraced her, cackling in his joy.

  Sir Richard lifted his goblet and nodded his head to the little woman in the doorway as she began to pick up the mess she dropped, herself wiping away tears of joy.

  “Fresh drinks, Tess!” he called to her.

  Again, conversations mixed to a festive rumble. Sir Ian the Loud, as he was called in jest, had been quietly standing in his own corner. Now he handed Talah her own cup of mead, adding a wink and a grin.

  “Welcome back, Talah,” exclaimed Richard.

  A joyous cacophony of voices hailed her as Tess stepped up from behind. Tess was Richard’s loving wife. She was short, plump and wore her apron proudly. The aroma of cooked goose had already settled throughout the house. Tess began to assist Talah as she pulled off her cloak. “Here, now,” Tess grumbled in a motherly fashion. “It’s a nasty smelling thing to wear when cold and wet. I’ll toss it over by the fire to dry.” Tess laughed and embraced Talah with a giggle. “And, ooh—I’ve got your favorite, my dear,” she pulled away, adding with an elbow to Talah’s ribs. “Chittlings cooked in milk with black bread crumbs.”

  Talah recalled that actually being one of her least favorite dinners. It was hard to ignore the love and kindness Tess provided her house and visitors. Such an uplifting spirit. Talah couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t a bit of faery in her humanity somewhere.

  Sir William the Proud finally started to regain some of his color and swallowed a whole cup of wine as if to make certain his cheeks were flushed. “So, tell us, Talah,” he begun as he poured himself another full cup. “How did you do it?”

  “Yes, tell us,” Thomas blurted.

  “Not entirely on my own, I assure you.” stuttered Talah.

  Sir Richard frowned. “I charge you gentle knights. Give this woman time to breathe. She’s only just arrived. There’ll be plenty of time to hear her story.”

  “Some other time, I’m afraid,” Talah insisted coolly. “There is an urgency and good reason for my visit this late night.”

  Murmurs ceased and all stood before Talah with unwavering eyes. All but Sir Wayne, who listened intently from his chair drawing a needle and thread from a rolled up cloth.

  “Certainly not more tidings of our bedraggled and negligent Scottish king,” cackled Sir Angus. “Still angry over split loyalties, is he?”

  “No. Not this time. But, an enemy indeed, Sir Angus. An enemy to whom I now ride to extinguish from the face of this land for good.”

  Sir William grinned, eyeing his even fingernails. “And which enemy is it this time we are to conquer? More Welsh chieftains from their brothers? Or is it some merry folk stealing England’s reserves again in nearest yon forest?”

  Soberly, Talah replied, “A sorceress.”

  All halted from their distractions.

  “Say again?” Richard asked.

  “A sorceress. Perhaps you’ve seen her,” Talah said nonchalantly, pacing about. “She’s been posing as a French cardinal on these shores.”

  “Good God, but she must be a homely mug,” said young Thomas.

  Laughter erupted as Talah continued. “A cunning witch of dark magic, she changes shape. She is, in fact, quite a stunning woman in her own image.” The last, she murmured before the vain eye of William, who raised an eyebrow of curiosity.

  “Then why rid ourselves of this woman?” William asked. “We could certainly use a few decent looking wenches, eh?”

  “Oh, you’ll not want any like this one, I’m afraid.”

  Old Sir Wayne laboriously attempted to thread a needle. His moustache whiskers were tuft, pursed lips puckered in their grimace, and eyes squinted to the dim hearth light. Cursings arose under his prideful breath before Talah stepped over and sat on her heels before him. Taking the needle and thread from him, she poked the thread through the eye and tied a knot at the end.

  Sir Richard continued the conversation as Talah casually sewed up the hole in Sir Wayne’s shoulder. “Is she really the source of all this wintry hell?”

  Talah nodded, concentrating on her small task. “It was the only way she could entrap the Lady of the Land.”

  Thomas hackled, “Children’s stories. There is no such person.”

  Old Wayne barked. “Hell, boy, don’t you know every tale has a bit of truth to it? If you paid more attention to your upbringing, nephew, you would more fully appreciate your Celtic traditions.” Sir Wayne took his glare off Thomas and eyed Talah’s finished work. He nodded gratefully. “My fingers aren’t as supple as they used to be.”

  Tess had stepped near to light an oil lamp and cackled at Sir Wayne’s comment. “No, but your tongue still is as wicked as a bull whip.”

  “Oh, Madame, but the sensible virtue is a tongue well armored for ambitious combat. And the victorious charge is the word best spoken.”

  “If only this battle could be fought by your virtuous pen, Sir Wayne,” William patronized.

  “With all due recklessness aside,” Sir Wayne added, “let us get back to the matter at hand shall we? If she is as powerful a sorceress as you so have pointed out, is it then too presumptuous to believe she is quite aware of you and your dealings at hand?”

  “It is most true that she is well aware of the matter, aye,” Talah replied gravely.

  “We would be slaughtered like cattle, for God’s sake!” spat Sir William.

  “Should we not then set against this until we can be certain of the upper hand?” a concerned Sir Angus murmured between chomps on a goose leg.

  “We’ve no time, Angus. Her power is growing weaker and I have reason to believe it has something to do with the full moon, when she will be at her weakest.”

  “And when will this be?” asked the pious Sir Richard.

  “The wolf shall howl in seven days upon the Lake of the Cross. It is then and there we must strike. If we delay, well...it is uncertain just how much power she might possess.”

  William slammed down his ale. “The Lake of the Cross doesn’t even exist!”

  Sir Wayne grimaced at him. “Now, don’t you start disbelieving.”

  Sir Angus laid a large hand each behind the neck of William and Thomas, jesting, “Would you like me to knock some sense into them?”

  Richard stepped up to Talah worriedly. “Talah, you do realize she’ll be awaiting you? Surely, she’ll know we shall have no choice but to strike then.”

  Talah nodded then studied every face. “Indeed, we will no doubt find a multitude of unsavory warriors, warlords and mercenaries. There is fortification on all four corners of the Lake. There will be at least an army of great size at every nearby castle blocking us from reaching the Lake.”

  “Ah-ha, there I have you!” boasted Sir William in his haughtiness. “I happen to know Lord Bradento
n of Neath Castle, personally. I’ll simply talk some sense into the old rascal.”

  Talah listened while holding her cup out to the quiet Sir Ian as he poured her another mead. His sheepish grin and kind eyes showed the deepest admiration and respect for her.

  “Cast under a spell, I’m afraid, to defend her prize possession,” said Talah simply.

  “Utter nonsense! Bradenton has fought off every chieftain and king from Wales to Hibernia. Surely a little woman couldn’t even clip his fingernails let alone do such things as you’ve proposed.”

  Old Wayne pulled himself to his feet, an old hip wound showing its spirit in his grimace. “Surely, Sir William, you’re not going to propose that black is white here. We’re speaking of dark sorcery, man.”

  “She is only a woman, for God’s sake,” William protested.

  Talah raised an eyebrow to his chauvinistic response. Feeling her glare, William quickly turned an eye to her. “How much can she do?” he added with a snort. “It is merely a spell.”

  “Only a woman, you say. Hmm.” Talah paced before him coolly before digging into his kidney region with a firm, harsh grip. He issued cries of agony as she continued. “Yet, this woman has in her grasp the whole of England, Scotland and Wales by such a spell. How is it you suppose that she cannot, with her power, enslave a few soldiers and warlords to carry out her will with another such mere spell, Sir William?”

  Talah’s energy fed through her fingers nearly driving through his bones to shiver his soul. William shifted his weight uneasily and hesitated to reply as his words turned into gasps as she released him. The other knights had looked on, restless with the thought made quite vivid for them.