by A. L. Duncan
Finally, pious Sir Richard spoke. “Seven days, you say?”
“Aye,” she replied. “Who is with me?”
“And what do I tell my army when they ask of wages?” Sir William grumbled, staggering to his feet.
Talah humbly replied. “That I have none to give. The king doesn’t have the finances to help us. And manpower is scarce, with most trickled throughout France and Normandy, leaving only a few of us here in England.”
“Well,” sighed Sir Angus. “This sorceress surely has with her, if nothing else, impeccable timing.”
“I’m afraid we only have each other, and those we could possibly muster under your knightly arms,” Talah said finally.
“If only we had the time to seek council with Scotland. We might have gathered a great force,” Angus mused out loud.
Silence weighed upon the room like a woolen cloak, the inevitable circumstances pressing against their countenances a loyalty that called out with clarity and expedience of justice.
“I, for one, do not find it necessary to put a price on avenging what is held in my heart as sacred.” Sir Wayne stood and threw his shoulders back and with steely eyes thrust his hand out to her. “What say we meet this dragon then, afoot and astride to suffer at our hands the mightiness of these, our few forces. If in faith alone, then by God so be it!”
The fire flickered in his eyes and with the others a passion heralded by the rights of fellowship. Talah warmly grasped hold his hand as Sirs Richard and Thomas afterward laid theirs atop, followed by the rest. Tied together, Talah felt their honorable characters riveted a benevolence equal their pursuance of justice and the passionate embrace of their souls.
BAN TALAH RODE on to Nottingham, Coventry, and Oxford. And finally, to London, gathering her army of faithfuls: Celtic-Christians and seers, druids and warriors alike. By the wagonloads they flocked together, shopkeepers and artisans, merchants and apprentices. Those in the Celtic priesthoods who had conserved their energies and their practices and healings had awaited this day breathlessly. Others with vigor traded in their butcher and tanning smocks, gowns and mantles for leather tunics and mail. Here and there even the gray or brown robe of a monk was accompanied by a lance or bow.
Cold sleet and snow had turned unpaved streets to mud and snowy slush, but the faithful didn’t mind. They trudged on with horses hooves splattering and wagon wheels careening tracks. Paths were driven to near permanency toward the western horizon, for where they were going was of no matter. They followed in trust of their fellowship, their lands and the restored life of their leader, Ban Talah.
From castle ramparts, King Henry stood safely from the weather with his chamberlains under a canvas awning watching the procession. Lord Chamberlain, Sir Humphrey Knox lifted his small chin and scowled, flabbergasted at the sight. “Your Majesty,” he spat, incensed. “Are you going to allow this, this woman to just take off with these taxpaying people—your people—like some Exodus?”
King Henry was calmly gazing at Ban Talah’s following of peasant class and nobles alike. “Seeing Ban Talah again is as rewarding as seeing the sun rise on these English shores for the first time. In all its magnificent glory such a sight of nature cannot compare to my breath taken by her return and the gathering of nation behind her.”
The Earl of Bristol laughed at Sir Humphrey. “And to think she’s pulling it off without wages. Brilliant.”
“To be part of the greatest sea of fighting forces since Macbeth took Malcomb, I should think,” returned Henry. “Do you realize if she pulls this off what I could do to France?”
“Indeed, a prospect worth considering, Sire.”
“Ridiculous,” countered Humphrey.
“The problem with you, Knox, is that you’re too sensible,” Henry said roughly. “We are a poor country. And if there’s anything left in those pathetic hearts not equal to the greed of a day’s wages, one can be sure it is nothing less than hope.”
“Hope,” Humphrey coughed. “Hope doesn’t plough the fields, knead the pastries or sell the wares now does it?”
“Yes, you would surely miss those pastries, wouldn’t you?” the Earl murmured to the scoffing Humphrey.
“Forgive me for saying so, My Lord,” Humphrey continued, “but this Scot, a Pict, should have stayed to ashes. She’s done nothing but hinder our resources.”
Humphrey was silenced by the king’s callous glare, lurking inches from his own deep, sad eyes. “Do you believe yourself loyal to the crown, Sir Humphrey?” asked Henry.
Humphrey coughed and stuttered in nervousness. “Well...yes, yes of course, your Majesty. But, but, but—”
“Then prove your loyalty on the field. Go. And get out of my sight.”
Humphrey feigned understanding, hoping his king was jesting. “Go...Sire?”
“Go,” Henry growled. “And do not return unless your corpse be dragged or victorious feet lead you!”
“But, Sire! I’m getting on in age, I think. Besides, you need my services here, in London.”
Henry backed Humphrey against the stone ledge, allowing Humphrey’s face to be pelted with the icy sleet, his long curly locks drenched.
“B-be reasonable!” Humphrey crooned.
“Oh, but I am being very reasonable. I’m sending you off so that you may have a chance to live. Stay where you are, you sniveling coward, and I’ll cut your head off myself!”
The last, Henry raged with sword drawn, leaving Sir Humphrey to scamper away frightfully.
The Earl chuckled and shook his head. “It has always surprised me how a man as cowardly as you are, Knox, has taken sweet Anne as wife.”
Henry laughed. “Ah, yes. Anne. She almost had my child, if I didn’t fear she’d grow too ugly with age. Such a wild trollop, most certain to wear the pants in his family. They’re meant for each other. Cowardice is an odd way of showing one’s pride.”
Sir Humphrey did not reply to his king, but stammered off with nettled breath. “Insensitive barbarian. Who does he think he is to squander me off like some sack of onions, to threaten my life. Dare he have his precious Pyrenees without my input.” Soon, he was in the growing crowd with his squire, pulling horse and cart behind him. Practically every step was hindered by his turning about and eyeing the tower above. Henry was the vulture intent on its evil lurking.
Humphrey turned to his squire after nervously eyeing his king. “Well, hurry it up, boy. I haven’t got all day! And make certain you stop off to pick up my provisions!”
“Yes, my lord,” the young man quipped, trudging through the muck.
“And don’t lollygag. There’s a battle to be fought and I’m not going to walk it, I need my wagon back!” Shivering from the cold, he hissed, “I’ll catch my death if I don’t get shelter.”
A haggard housewife rode up beside Humphrey on her horse drawn wagon. “Why, I shan’t believe the Lord Chamberlain himself has come to fight for us,” she beamed.
“Rubbish, Madame,” he scowled. Raising an eye to her, he added, “I’ve come merely to observe.”
“I never knew you were sympathetic to our cause.”
“Indeed. Pagan witchery, ha!” He threw the hood over his head and angrily wrapped himself tightly with the cloak folds.
The woman raised an annoyed lip and glared. “And to think I was about to offer you a seat on me wagon. Humph!”
“Madame, I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.”
“Nor I you. A lady’s got a right to her dignity, you know.”
“Serfs don’t have dignity.”
“Why, I wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of you!”
“The feeling is quite mutual, I assure you. Do you really think I would be so bold as to accompany a lowly, vulgar hag?”
A whip cracked and the horses fled, wagon wheels spattering globs of soppy mud upon Sir Humphrey everywhere. He stopped in his tracks to stew as the woman’s cackles echoed through the crowd. “I pray God would wish my death this day, before it’s over I might do it myself, if I must
endure such cruel fate as this!”
Two young boys raced passed him, laughing and playing with wooden toy swords and poking at his behind.
“To war! To war!” they cried.
“A-a-ah!” Twisting about, he shivered violently in fear. “Ah! Dear mother save me from these wretched souls! A-a-ah!”
THE DAYS PASSED, until it came upon the eve of the full moon. It was mid-morning, and Talah’s companions stood at the edge of a forest’s hold just southeast from Penlle’r Castle to the north of the Lake of the Cross.
Moya paced about nervously as Brodie rationalized. “She said she’d be here. Just give her a little more time.”
“She should know better than to make me worry like this.” She turned on her heel with an afterthought. “And if you say that to me one more time—”
“Haven’t started without me, have you?” asked a calm voice from the field behind them.
Mac had been nudged by Brodie who also spotted the figure of Talah. “Ah, now we fight!” he laughed.
Moya dropped her shoulders and sighed.
“Didn’t I tell you?” cried Brodie. “I knew she’d come.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Talah replied. “I was kept busy gathering a few more patriots.”
Her companions all stood speechless to the horde of wagons, cavalry, and armored fighters driving slowly upon them over the meadow’s rise. Leading them were the six knights riding side by side, all tall in their saddles.
“Great saints!” cried Brodie. “There must be at least three thousand.”
“I’ve a feeling we are still grossly outnumbered,” Mac said.
Talah dismounted and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
Moya assisted Talah with Lugh, taking his reins. She sneered at the masses, distrust in her veins. “Talah, don’t you know there are some out there who spat on you at your trial? I know I didn’t hear all those voices shouting for your freedom as we did.”
Talah grinned and turned an eye to the caravan. “They are not here for me, Moya. They are here for themselves and to free the Goddess. They have come in pride of their lands just as we have. That is something you can’t find in any one human. What you see is the blood and pride of shires united, people united.”
Brodie pointed to the hawkish knight with a vibrant purple mantle. “But, I know for a fact Sir William is a Norman, not a Celt.”
“As are Sirs Richard and Thomas,” Talah explained, “and many others you’ll see here. But all are Celtic in spirit.”
“Aye,” Mac agreed with fervor. “It is their spirit to gnash with white teeth and rage with fists of steel we need. No matter to me their suit.”
Moya elbowed Talah. “He blows in the wind. Don’t let him fool you, he’s eyeing all the wagons of provisions those people are carrying.” They laughed at Mac’s grin. “I swear if his stomach speaks any louder it’ll surely cause the earth to tremble and crack as it did in Snowdonia.”
“Speaking of which,” continued Talah, “have you seen Sidric?”
Moya made an ugly face. The mere mention of that Welshman turned her stomach. “Aye. Camped just north of here.”
Talah squinted at her. “You don’t think much of him, do you?”
“It’s not for you to mind, Ban Talah.” Talah smiled at her fickleness and started walking, but not before Moya held her back with an afterthought. “Wait. All right, I’ll tell you. He didn’t come, Talah. He didn’t come,” she hissed. “He left you to burn, he did! We knew you didn’t have a chance in hell if just the four of us tried with a measly few. We needed him. You needed him. He didn’t come.”
“He wouldn’t have done it without good reason, Moya,” Talah reasoned. “Maybe he couldn’t reach Canterbury. Maybe he couldn’t get out of Snowdonia.”
“Well, he got here all right. Wasn’t a bit afraid to come to this dark place.”
“Canterbury is a bit farther away.”
“I don’t trust him, Talah. I don’t. If you ask me, he’s probably working with that evil witch.”
Talah grimaced at the thought. “Sidric is a Celt of bold honor. A warlord with outstanding courage and cunning. Certainly if a peculiar charm attached itself to him the feeling of unnatural dread would surely be in the air. Ride with me then, Moya,” Talah persuaded gently. “We’ll both speak to him. I’ll know right off if he’s under Juetta’s spell.”
Moya nodded and turned for her horse as Talah turned to Mac and Brodie. “I’ll need the both of you to show these good people where to camp.”
Brodie gulped. “All of them?”
Talah raised herself onto Lugh’s saddle and pulled a glove on tightly. Taking the reins in her grip, she pulled Lugh around. “Keep them on this side of the forest until we know just what it is we’re dealing with out there.”
“Aye,” the men replied sullenly together.
Moya awaited Talah’s lead, and the two were off with the spurring of heels.
THE WOODED GLEN was thick and any sign of life eclipsed by a plodding layer of fog. The horse’s hooves shuffled loudly through thickets and leaves under the cawing of crows overhead, while bare tree tops ached and swayed from the frigid breeze. Sidric’s camp was nestled above a marsh where tents were scattered in convenient cloisters, Sidric’s bearing a standard of his kingdom on either side of the entrance flap.
Sidric, Marcher lord of Snowdonia, stepped out from his tent as Talah and Moya were escorted by two of his soldiers.
“Welcome, Ban Talah,” Sidric shouted joyfully with arms outstretched, “to the day of reckoning!”
Talah slid off Lugh and approached Sidric with Moya alongside. Sidric’s long, curly hair and long mustache twisted in the drafts of air now and again. The belt he wore was without its weapon. The first thing Talah noticed was his eyes. Eyes of sky blue, she mused, much to her relief.
“Sidric is himself,” Talah whispered to Moya.
He and Talah embraced arms before he glanced kindly upon Moya’s scowling features. “Moya—”
Before he could react Moya drew an upper cut, her fist driving against his thick chin, sending the mighty warlord to stumble in dismay.
Talah gasped. “Moya!”
Moya swiftly drew her sword and started to charge him before Talah held her back, seeing Sidric’s guards had also drawn their swords and bows.
Sidric rubbed his aching jaw, his frown quickly turning to laughter. He motioned his guards to lower their weapons. “Well, I’ve had worse greetings from a woman or two.”
“Bastard!” Moya cried. “You’re nothing but a coward to have left Talah the way you did. You don’t even deserve to be spit on. Let me go, Talah! I want his head!”
“Moya, stand down!” Talah ordered sternly, fighting her squirming.
Sidric was still in his humors. “I see Ban Talah is none the worse for it. Besides, I was warned not to come.”
“You lie!” Moya snapped.
Talah let her go and settled her with a hand. She looked into Sidric’s eyes and read sincerity. “Who told you not to come?”
Sidric flipped a hand. “Some old woman I’ve never seen the likes of, nor since.”
Moya snorted. “As if an old woman would stop you.”
Talah scrutinized his disposition as she sauntered closer to him. Partly from condition, Talah had learned over the years to sense in people their framework of character. It would not be fitting for a man of his timber to be so easily swayed by merely the speech of a stranger. His eyes dilated slightly at her calm approach and she knew by this chemistry he was ill at heart, a guilt not shown in his demeanor.
“What of this old woman?” asked Talah. “What did she say to you?”
“She warned me the sorceress would have my soldiers slaughtered if we came into Norman country after you.”
Sidric told his story, trying best to recall all he could.
“I had been lounging in my tent, sitting comfortably in my chair covered with wolf and bear pelts collected from hunts near the northernmost regions only days be
fore, laughing at the unshakeable, stern features of this old woman.
“’Do you realize who you are standing before?’ I said. ’My army has fought nearly every clan and Norman scum there is. And I have never suffered defeat, or even slaughter, as you say.’
“’You cannot help Ban Talah, now,’ said the old woman. ’All is unfolding as it should. And if you should choose to journey you shall loose many a dear life for your needless efforts.’
“I told the old woman to toddle off to her sticks and bones, and meddle in someone else’s affairs. And that she was wasting my time. The old woman raised her hooded head and spoke in a remorseful tone.
I’ll never forget her face when she said, ’Mark what I say here today in your soul. If you go, you shall lose three hundred and twenty-eight men and women before turning back, with your brother returning only among the dead.’
“The stranger then turned and departed through the folds of canvas. I marched out of my tent and swung wide the flaps to either side, eyeing sorely the dense forest for any sign of the woman’s figure. I found no one. She had disappeared. No leafage or frond moved, no twig snapped under weight, no shadowed movement of any kind recalled any such figure to have passed nearby at all. Then my guard told me that no one had passed him except myself. Surely, I wasn’t going to listen to an old hag’s prattling,” Sidric continued. “Her tongue may only be the quips of dangerous lunacy. No telling how long she had been wandering about these forests, or even from where she came. Yet, her sudden disappearance startled me as badly as the utterance of my brother’s ill fate.
“We had no resistance entering England,” Sidric recalled to Talah and Moya. “And I thought the old woman only of crafty madness. Then out of the wooded glen they came at us, just east of Oxford. We were ambushed. Believing them only hapless thieves, we struck them down simply, for we ourselves admire the wooded ambush. But soon more came at us like rats out of the water—hundreds of them. I ran one through with my sword and saw his eyes. They were as white as snow, they were! Absent of any center. As if their souls had been sucked from them.”
