Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  Talah’s eyes drew bitterly.

  “Out of pity or compassion I stopped to gaze at the fool,” Sidric continued gravely. “It was a priest. I had slain a priest. To my shame the army of Gwynedd was slaying and being slain by thieves and priests! I could hear that old woman’s voice whisper in my head the warning. I knew then our attempt was futile. The more we slayed, the more would appear. Our archers soon ran out of arrows and had to start pulling them from fallen bodies. Amidst the wailing of wounded and clamoring of steel, I drew an eye about for my brother, only to see him among a littered pile of dead. A lance had run him through.”

  Moya gasped.

  “Aye,” he replied. “The old woman prophesized the truth. It was shortly after, my men fell back. My brother’s body was dragged back to Gwynedd behind his steed among the rest that perished that day. It was just as that woman had said. Three hundred and twenty-eight.”

  Talah dropped eye contact in empathy. They had followed Sidric into his tent as he talked, wrapping his woolen over his broad shoulder. Sheathing his heavy blade he leaned close to Talah and Moya.

  “I’ve got as much desire for vengeance as you do,” he growled. “I shall find no greater pleasure than to hear the wolves cry over that damned witch’s corpse leeching her bloody guts from my blade!”

  Chapter Twelve

  A LATE AFTERNOON sun settled through the veil of an overcast sky as the last of Talah’s army arrived to set up camp. There was no uniformity of campsites due largely to Mac and Brodie’s spirited attempt to make the most of forest edge and meadow, literally keeping all to this end of the forest as Talah had instructed. The forest was narrow though, and it would not have made much of a difference if all sites were more cloistered, for ruckus after ruckus broke out among the womenfolk who followed along for the sake of their husband warriors. The clique of any army’s regular, women selling their pleasures gathered their tents separately on a wooded berm in order to oversee the meadow of prospects below. The six knights commanded soldiers to guard the wooded stretch and patrol the open meadows and marshes west and south for any enemy scouring the miles between castles. Campfires dotted the scape with their modest light and were nosily thronged, mostly by menfolk hungry for the food being cooked by serving wenches and daughters—with many of the daughters being warriors, themselves.

  “That’s what you need, Mac,” Brodie exclaimed, chomping on a piece of boar meat he gathered from another camp. “A woman who cooks and fights!”

  “Aye,” Mac replied, eyes animated with visions no less than a sultan’s harem. “I’ll take six. One for every day of the week.”

  Talah had been warming her hands by the fire, with an eye to the approach of Sirs Ian and Richard from the far fields. “When would you have the time?”

  “A man could make time for women, no matter how many he were to please. A woman, a battle. A woman, a battle.”

  They laughed with mischievous intent before Brodie paused.

  “W-wait, don’t you mean seven days?”

  “God has given man a day of rest, after all. He knew what we’d be up against.”

  The quiet Sir Ian rode next to Sir Richard, their horses galloping over the wooded rise and down a steep ravine to splash through a rapidly running brook, all within the watchful eyes of Talah’s soldiers hiding out among the underbrush and atop large tree limbs. They would have had to pass by many a warrior’s tent before arriving before Ban Talah, the standards of England and Scotland acknowledging the temporal breeze that ruffled their embroidered fabric only slightly.

  She was confident the silhouettes were Ian and Richard, and could be no one else. She motioned them to join her to her tent as they dismounted. Guards posted on either side of the entrance stood unyielding to the still, cold air even though their souls sensed an eeriness about the land. They ducked inside and were greeted by the attendance of the other four knights. Ban Talah bent over a scroll map with Moya and Lord Sidric’s faces glimmering from the neighboring oil lamps. A serving wench had also followed them into the tent carrying a flagon of wine for Talah and her officers. Talah raised an eye to pious Sir Richard after acknowledging the servant’s smile with a warm greeting of thanks.

  “Anything from south country, Richard?”

  Sir Richard pulled off his gloves and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid.”

  Talah coolly returned her gaze to the scroll and cracked a smile. “You’re going to inform us that Neath Castle is absolutely devoid of any presence.”

  Richard met her grin with a wink. “Unless you account the few ghosts.”

  “All of you come near so you can have a better look.”

  Old Sir Wayne stroked his white chin beard thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of personally meeting this French Medusa. However, her battle tactics I should think are no better than a child’s. This cat and mouse game is quite wearing.”

  Talah spoke confidently. “Let us hope this makes her all the more predictable.”

  Young Thomas snorted in disbelief. “I doubt that she’s even at this God forsaken lake, let alone any of her so-called armies.”

  “That is exactly what she wants green fools like you to believe,” the stout Scot, Sir Angus, barked.

  “I will attest to all of you here and now,” Sidric said, standing square shouldered before all. “This witch is no child. She is as clever as Morgan le Fay ever was against Myrddin!”

  “Whoever or whatever she is, she is not to be looked upon with idle flippancy,” interjected Talah with hard-set eyes.

  Wayne ruffled a thick, winged eyebrow. “Just where is she getting this power of hers, such as it is?”

  Angus motioned in agreement. “Aye, one would think anyone’s power like yours would be weakened if the land be taken as she has done.”

  Talah responded with a nod. “Generally, it has proven so. However, her power comes not from this land, nor from her own soul. This power is much greater than any of us.”

  “It’s the Devil’s own, I say,” Angus answered.

  Sidric’s features hardened. “I’ll wager that old woman has a pretty good idea. Shall I have my men find her?”

  “No time, Sidric,” Talah replied. “We’ll just have to take our chances that being a mortal as Juetta is there will be flaws in this Otherworld power she has tried to harness as her own.”

  William the Proud stood with arms folded over his chest and pursed his lips.

  Talah could feel his eyes upon her as she glanced with slight interest to the servant who filled her cup.

  Dryly, he raised a question in his casual manner as if the answer didn’t much matter. “As our beloved Angus has pointed out, there most certainly has been quite a few Merlins since days of old to pull such tricks of attention. Yet, correct me if I’m mistaken, Talah. You have a most, shall we say, intimate acquaintance with this particular mistress. Tell us then, how her mysteries escaped even the likes of you.”

  Talah slowly pulled her shoulders back and exhaled uneasily to the stares that settled back at her.

  Old Wayne’s eyes met hers with a small grin. “Far be it for me to misjudge your intentions, my dear. But, is all this muddle simply a fatal attraction on her part?”

  All broke out into varying degrees of humorous replies, releasing the tension Talah felt.

  “Surely, you would have had better sense than to start prying into a woman’s heart that could only bring you misfortune?” added Wayne.

  Sir Richard snuffed at the old knight’s fatherly advice. “And are these words of wisdom also words of experience?”

  “More times than one can count.” Sir Wayne’s reply was haughty and composed, bringing about more laughter. “Indeed, the threat of women turning after a time is quite severe. This is why, my dear Talah, I should advise you to linger no more these follies upon women’s breasts and their short-lived virtues. It will do you no harm to consider men’s lusts. We are simple barbarians and very predictable. At the very least, you’ll find you might live l
onger.” The last he muttered off into his cup as a passing thought.

  Talah looked down her nose to him. “And I suppose you can tell me a thing or two about men’s lusts, Sir?”

  He smiled richly. “Indeed, they are but the sweet nectar of spring’s blossoms, although some do harbor the drama of a thorn prick if the pedals are too sensitive.”

  “I believe I’ll leave men’s lust to you, Sir Wayne. If I have, gentlemen, any advantage over your concocted wisdoms of women I should remind you I happen to know a thing or two about a woman’s mind. And I can tell you, my gentle knights, this woman has intentions that are no mystery. It has been her sole purpose to rid our lands of their greatest asset, the strength of Celtic blood and more importantly, druidic powers. King Henry of England and Normandy has embattled France’s politics and her king to weariness.”

  “And this witch believes ridding you and those like you would better her king against ours?” Sir Richard inquired.

  Talah nodded. “Aye. Yet, it seems that she has gotten over her head believing her Otherworldly powers are predictable and can be controlled. Her powers have been like a tempest, and like a tempest they cannot go on forever before their hold is loosened. That is why it is imperative we strike tomorrow.” Talah gestured for all eyes to look upon the scroll map. “Right now, she’s feeling anxious, disturbed at what our next move might be. Eagerly awaiting her prey as a falcon strapped to its hunter’s arm. Knowing the waxing moon is near she’ll want her armies close by. With her armies encircled round the Lake of the Cross, she is certain to keep us at bay by their strength of numbers, tightly closed, and unable to reach the imprisoned Goddess until it is too late. And by this I mean when the moon is again waning.”

  Sir Angus spoke. “I’d say it would be best to split our armies round the lake and attack then. It would keep their lines thin.”

  “That would mean our lines as well would be thinned,” William protested.

  Sir Richard agreed. “We could instead take nearby Swansea Castle and come from behind. It being the nearest point to the lake.”

  “That would be the obvious choice,” Talah answered, reserved. She crossed arms over her chest and studied the faces of her loyal knights with deliberate scrutiny. Of all, her eyes fell upon the steady features of Sir Ian. Quiet Sir Ian. His father had been a warlord from the Hebrides as well as his father’s father before him. All had fought campaigns that made a highlander’s reputation as one of the greatest of warriors. “What say you, Sir Ian?” Talah asked respectfully. “How would you storm the lake?”

  Surprised she would call upon a man of little concern to anything vocally, Sir William grew wide-eyed to Ian’s sheepish approach. “I never knew you had an opinion, Sir,” he said in his prudish poise.

  Ian simply ignored him.

  He pushed his way past shoulders to stand before the table. Oil lamps flickered a warm golden light upon observing and curious faces as all watched with acute ears to hear the views Sir Ian kept frequently to himself. After a modest glance to Talah he eyed closely the scroll map. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but firm in a baritone and spiced with Gaelic pride. His long, dark mustache twitched as he sniffed a breath.

  “If it were up to me,” he said unassuming, “I’d take the whole lot and ram us through like the prow of a ship.”

  All laughed.

  Richard coughed. “A bit brazen, isn’t it?”

  Old Wayne agreed. “Absolutely suicidal, and brilliant.”

  “Do you mean to split their forces?” entreated Sir Angus.

  Richard warned cautiously, “You’ll have to wade through the thick of it to reach the Lady, Talah.”

  “If she’s even there,” snorted William.

  Thomas wanted his misgivings to be included. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s a bloody witch! What if she’s already seen its premonition?”

  Talah smiled at young Thomas with pride. “That’s the most insightful thing I believe I’ve ever heard from your lips, young Sir. True, it is of no matter really, any of this, if her dark gifts are as powerful as we presume. What she wouldn’t expect is for us to keep on fighting no matter what, and believing such mastery of Otherworldly things is quite beyond the power of any man or woman.”

  Finally, Sir William conceded and scratched his head nervously. “You think we can really pull it off?”

  Old Wayne’s voice dropped to a veteran’s timber. “You had better pray we do.”

  PATCHES OF CLOUDS gathered in impressive accompaniment to the dusk sky, in their purple and orange robes. Talah and Moya rode their steeds uncommunicative, listening in on this story or that from a knight or Welsh warrior. Indeed, it had been no small feat that Ban Talah brought Norman and Saxon together. A Welshman grabbed hold of a Norman’s shirt in cursing anger until each spotted Ban Talah sitting high upon Lugh, her silhouette warning them both. Respectfully, the two men quietly sat back down together on a log and sulked before the fire. Talah and Moya rode on, their horses often ambling slowly past warriors who kept to themselves sharpening their various weapons. Occasionally, one would stare through the smoke and flame of fire to catch a glimpse of the legendary figure he or she would have heard many tales about, but had never, before this day, had seen personally. Talah met the stares and stiff salutes with a nod and smile, grateful for their patriotism.

  Moya must have uttered something out loud to bring Talah out of her remoteness.

  “What was that you said?”

  “I said something?” Moya flushed coyly.

  Talah smiled and respectfully left the matter where it lay.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet, Talah. What weighs on your mind so that keeps you distant?”

  “Moya, I—“

  “Oh, I realize you have been through so much in the last months. Surely the memories alone have weighed upon your countenance as heavily as the burdens themselves. To have lost dear friends, especially Danann...”

  “Moya—”

  “And to have been betrayed, certainly these must be deep scars.”

  “Moya!” Talah held up a hand to silence her. Moya’s response was a sodden slouch.

  “Well, all right. As you wish.”

  Talah was highly self-conscious and not one to lightly discuss such things in idle conversation. She then halted Lugh and dismounted. “I wish to be alone for a while,” she said in low, handing Lugh’s reins to Moya.

  Moya drew back with a look of concern. “Do you really think that it’s wise to walk alone? I should escort you.”

  Talah smiled at Moya’s protectiveness. “If it’ll make you feel better we will trade cloaks.”

  Moya frowned. “I suppose that’s the least you’ll let me do for you.”

  “An immense help.”

  Talah unclasped her heavy brown tartan wool and exchanged it for Moya’s deep, dark blue. “See that someone gives him a good brushing, will you?”

  “Can’t trust just anybody to do it right,” Moya grumbled in jest. “Guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

  Talah nuzzled Lugh’s nose. A more loyal war horse she never had. There were times she’d swear his spirit would flow together with hers and their thoughts as one. A black mountain of solid groundedness was he, whose unconditional love made her quite envious at times of such an emotion she felt she could never attain. She pressed her forehead against his, then stepped away.

  “If the knights arrive back at my tent before I do, see that their rounds are noted,” Talah ordered.

  Moya nodded. “Aye. I’ll finish our rounds here.”

  Talah watched Moya ride away before disappearing into the wooded fold, its foliage and thick pine boughs breathing a gentle welcome and safe haven. The night sky was trying to clear. Here and there among the company of clouds, stars lit the canopy above her and as she walked on, she noted their clear and crisp sparkles. The ambiguity of it all was that these clouds were foreboding in their layers and predicted a deadly threat to follow. Fog would come, Talah saw this. And mo
re snow. All this to veil Juetta’s wicked plan.

  With the hood up over her head, she stepped gingerly over roots and branches and approached a woman and her baby sitting before a small campfire. The infant was very young, no more than five to seven months as best she could tell. The mother sat on a log and rocked her baby, checking its tightly wrapped swaddle. A quick breath escaped the woman’s lips to the cloaked figure that over shadowed her.

  Talah spoke softly, settling the woman’s fears. “Forgive me. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  With hand clutched to her heart, the woman smiled nervously to Talah’s gentle hand upon her shoulder.

  “Please,” the woman gestured, “sit down and warm yourself. I’ve fed the fire well.”

  Talah sat beside her, the hood hiding her grave features as she spoke. “Why do you bring your child here, woman?”

  “Why, to follow Ban Talah, of course. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “There will be much bloodshed, and death certainly. This is no place to bring an infant.”

  The woman’s voice quivered as she eyed proudly the little bundle that looked back with beautiful, dark eyes. “I wanted her to see Ban Talah before...” She choked on the last words.

  Talah could read the words not spoken, and felt the shadow of the child’s soul upon her. Talah pulled a glove off and with a finger pulled aside the folds of cloth from the baby’s tender face and touched its cheek.

  “Your child is ill?” asked Talah.

  The woman nodded with sullen poise. “You see, the curse upon this land has befallen her too. I know she will not live to return home, she hasn’t the strength. But, at least she might see her namesake.”

  Talah was taken aback. “Namesake?”

  “Yes,” the woman gleamed in gentle pride. “I named her Talah, because she is strong, from a priestly clan.” She grinned. “She fought me all the while I carried her, like a churning storm. And when she was born her grip was the might of a bear! You should hear her cry.” Tears sparkled down the mother’s face. “It was the greatest of war cries.”