by A. L. Duncan
Sidric eyed the stoic figure of Mac and returned to Moya a regretful sigh. “Tell me then, woman, when last Ban Talah left her war horse to walk absent behind the lines of a battlefield?”
Moya followed his gaze and outstretched arm to the knoll in the distance where stood Talah’s black stallion, guarded by Sir Humphrey’s squire. It was then Moya’s heart began to sink with agony. Never was a word that could not cross her lips.
“Look!” cried Brodie. He stood near and pointed toward the middle of the meadow.
A vague figure floated above the dances of oat grass, their songs were of hushed lullabies. All drew breath to the numbing sight of Ban Talah’s limp body being carried by a most heavenly being. The white gown flowed from a dawn of dew drops and flowing hair glowed bejeweled upon the fair head like fire from the sun. All knew this woman was the Goddess, the Lady of the Land, and so parted and kneeled to allow the heavenly approach.
She lilt upon the field and knelt to lay Talah gently on the soft mossy ground. The Lady’s eyes sparkled with sonnets of color and earthly seasons as she reached for Talah’s soiled form, moist from the land’s fresh dirt. A chorus of light fell upon Talah as the Lady touched her hand, the same hand she once tried to touch her through an icy prison, the very hand that delivered her freedom. The Lady then brushed the brow of the warrior before lightly kissing it, and such a gallant brow it was. She lifted her eyes to the many that stood near in awe and nodded her thanks. Glancing back to Talah, her form dissipated like a heated vapor and disappeared.
All eyes scanned the valley as it slowly lit up with every meadow flower imaginable. Full budding blooms on every flowering tree popped and tender leaves on the mighty oaks, birch and brush unrolled their glory. All ears heard the many winged creatures again sing their praises to the heavens with gratitude, so that all would call this day the day of Sguabaig, the soughing blast that ushered in spring.
When Moya turned back, Talah was raising herself on one elbow with much effort.
“Talah!” Moya cried, kneeling to her. “By Brighid, you are alive!”
After a moment, Talah gasped from Moya’s tight embrace, “Moya...” Being released at arm’s length, Talah rubbed her chest painfully and eyed Moya’s fashionable new battle breastplate of pointy metal buttons.
The two laughed. Talah was helped onto her feet as she too released a sigh of gratitude to the warm air and blue sky. It was all over. The breezes drifted past her skin eagerly also to denote a solemn call. Her eyes sadly lowered to the lives lost for such a liberty.
“What happened to the southern Welsh?” asked Talah.
Mac perked up. “All scattered like cockroaches to a flame!” he cackled. “Had a fella before me that ran off before I could tell him he had the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen.”
Talah allowed everyone’s good nature and hackling jokes, then turned around to spy Sidric approaching her from where the waters once were. With a smile and nod of relief, he sheepishly held out Lisula to her.
“I believe you’ll be needing this, woman.”
Talah looked into his eyes thoughtfully and reached for her sword. Through the crowd, a horseman trod slowly. Talah lifted her eyes as the soldiers parted and smiled. The horseman was Sir Humphrey’s squire, riding Lugh proudly.
Talah looked stunned to see another riding Lugh.
The young man halted before Talah and beamed, “I knew you would return. I just knew it!”
“How is it you are able to ride Lugh?” Talah asked, bewildered.
The squire cocked a curious grin. “What do you mean? I simply mounted him.”
Talah glanced to Lugh with a ruffled brow. Lugh’s reply was a murmured whinny and turn of the head.
The squire slid off Lugh’s massive back and handed Talah the reins. “It was my honor to keep him company for you, my lady.”
“It is I who should be honored, for he indeed chose a noble heart.”
Mac slid up to the squire and muttered, “No one, lad, has ever been able to sit upon Ban Talah’s horse before, save an old woman and Ban Talah herself.”
At the squire’s wide eyes, Talah added, “This is Lugh’s way of saying you will one day be a respected leader of many.”
“I?”
“What is your name, lad?”
“Robin of Loxley, my Lady.”
“Well then.” Talah placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and turned him toward the gathering crowd. “Remember this day and the name Robin of Loxley. For he shall one day be a man of great treasure to England and Wales, and possess a kind eye and noble heart to all.”
Cheers arose and hands tugged the boy away. Sidric then approached her and Moya. “It will be dusk soon. We should start the building of pyres and the gathering of all fallen.”
Talah inhaled deeply. She touched his arm and walked past him. “Aye. Come. We’ve still work to do.”
Throughout the day, the wounded were helped from the fields and mended as best as could be done. Oxen and carts were helpful carrying the dead over rocky terrain and soggy marshland, the cumbersome chains and clanking of wooden wheels seemed almost a calling to the wandering souls who had lost their lives so violently on that soil.
Eventually, Talah was told of the twenty-two other knights that were among the dead. It was a small price to pay for all those who now were prepared to travel back to their homes among the renewed spring season.
By dusk, the evening sky lit up in lavenders and oranges and pinks from the low horizon of sparse cloud covering. Atop one pile of rushes were the bodies of Sir Wayne and young Sir Thomas, covered by a Norman flag. Brodie had been playing a dirge on his flute loud enough so all could hear, from the slope of a far ridge. Sir Richard and the other three remaining knights stood around Talah quietly, each in their own prayers, grim faces all.
Richard had to favor a leg wound as he neared Talah. “Someone will have to tell their stories,” he said proudly.
“Aye,” replied Talah softly. “They lived courageously and died admirably.”
A murmuring agreement resounded from all about them. Moya expressed misted eyes of sorrow for Talah. Talah had been holding onto a lit torch, staring at Sir Wayne’s form as if awaiting prayers to return him to life.
“I recall the many lives that perished at Newcastle Abbey so many months ago,” Talah finally said. “How long their spirits have awaited this end. To Juetta’s end, such a soul’s insanity surely must now find peace in death.” Talah lowered the torch and shoved the rod and flames into the pile of dry brush.
One by one Talah observed the pyres being lit in symphony accompaniment. The whole countryside was beginning to be dotted by the stars above, hushed in their hues as if in solemn prayer to the glowing embers and lamenting fires below. The chinking drone of armed masses was heard to echo within the valley as everyone followed Ban Talah’s lead. She knelt and bowed her head respectfully in silence. All who joined the ceremony witnessed a most wondrous and beautiful sight to settle the ache of loss. All were one in battle, and all were one in peace and prayer. Honor was the hallowed hall of the dead this day.
MANY OF THE children kept occupied in quiet celebration by braiding supple rushes and field flowers on the long journey home, making St. Bride’s crosses. They then busied themselves by handing the crafts merrily to passing horsemen and knights. Talah, too, was given a cross of white rowan bloom from a child in a passing wagon. She smiled weakly to the child, grateful for such a sweet-smelling gift. She mused a little at the gentle reminder of the newborn babe which carried her name. Brodie then distracted her thoughts by leading a parade of pipes and flutes, and joined in with the occasional drumming from a happy lad. Talah’s heart was indeed pleased to see such joy. Never had a people been so inspired to begin a new life.
Sir Humphrey Knox rode in the wagon of prostitutes eagerly prattling on of his bravery against the barbarians, as he called them, adding with theatrical character how he subdued one hundred by his hand alone.
“Cowardice
has a swagger all its own,” said Sir Richard to Humphrey’s young squire riding next to him.
Already the story of Sir Humphrey was being passed by the lips of humored bards. An infectious tale of how his squire, Robin, had to call for assistance to get Sir Humphrey out of a small tree he had climbed, out of fright and in avoidance of a white eyed warrior. Fully armored, his mail chinks were snagged by broken twigs, allowing him to be the target of easy prey until Robin’s arrow took down Humphrey’s pursuer. All this until other knights could, after the battle, aid in Humphrey’s ungrateful release.
After a while the knights all wearied from such stories and rode on silently. Until, that is, all started noticing Talah’s reserved melancholy.
Looking over his shoulder, Sir Richard asked, “Do you still prefer to be alone?”
Talah was a short space behind the knights. Her reply was a nod. She was close enough to hear them talk about her.
William picked at some hardened mud on his sleeve with disgust.
“She’s been quite glum ever since old Sir Wayne’s death.”
“He was like a father to her.”
Sir Angus added, “I’m certain she’ll get over it soon enough.”
“I heard she was offered the hero’s portion last evening for supper and she turned it down,” gruffed William.
“What a fine rump of roast it was!”
“She would have none of it, as if we had the audacity to include her and name her brave.”
“Talah is proud,” Richard interjected loudly. “And she respects her place among the fallen. She has a right to feel as she does. The woman deserves to mourn alone. It is her right.”
Talah tired of listening to such talk and broke off from the caravan. She tarried across a stream to allow Lugh a good drink before heading on. Slipping off the saddle she stepped along the water’s edge to watch the trickles ebb around her boots before squatting and cupping the gentle coolness to her lips. It tasted so good, she lapped up another mouthful. She didn’t realize how parched her own lips and throat were.
It had been a few days now since the battle and Talah had kept her own company as best as one could. It hadn’t occurred to her the emptiness and isolation she endured amidst the feasting and singing. How unavoidable this gloom, she thought. The water reflected to her the life she insisted on keeping. Yet, she felt nothing from it.
Sir Ian pulled back on the reins and turned around to wait for her to catch up. Numbly she rode along, eyeing the grasses as if to pay them no mind. A slight glance and weak grin acknowledged Sir Ian’s presence. They rode beside one another silently for quite a while before it was quiet Ian who no longer could stand the silence.
“Where will you go now?” he asked.
“North,” she replied.
“Then what?”
She snuffed his question and glanced at his silent bearing from the corner of her eye. “Quiet Ian.” Her reply almost carried a tinge of annoyance. “Did those gentlemen there stir you to compose your auspices before me in kindly conversation?”
“No.”
“What is it, then?”
He shrugged. “The lads are starting to think I’m a bad influence on you.”
To that, their eyes met and his small grin made her laugh a little. After a pause, she said, “I just need some time.”
“To do what?”
“To come to terms with what I did.”
“There’s confession for that.”
She halted Lugh. “I failed, Ian,” Talah huffed. “I swore a life for a life, and my life wasn’t given as promised. Do you understand? I cheated death by denying my fate.”
Ian laughed under his breath.
“What do you find so humorous?”
“Fate is fate. Do not think so highly of yourself, if you were meant to die you would have died. You have no power over what God has already ordained for us. Half-immortal or not, Ban Talah, you cannot decide your own fate.”
Talah stewed. “It was a druidic ceremony, Ian. Life for a life.”
“Ooh. That’s serious.”
Talah coughed something unintelligible.
After a moment, he shrugged. “A sacrifice is a sacrifice, you know. You gave a life. The witch’s!” He keenly studied her glare. “That cross of rowan blooms you hold were just like you, buried in a spell until the Lady of the Land returned all as it was. Her kiss of grace brought them back, brought everything back. Life is life, Talah.”
Until that moment, Talah had been deaf to the voice of truth. So content to reject wisdom and divert all persuasion, she left behind the one aspect of reason and integrity she held principle to.
“Life.”
Talah fingered the braided cross in her hand and indeed, they were alive in their soft suppleness. Was Danann alive too? Her heart twisted in tormented question. She must go to her. The truth won’t be known unless she saw Danann with her own eyes.
“There’s only one way to find out,” he insisted. Ian smiled to her refreshed inhale. “Now, that’s the Talah I know.”
Talah smiled and spurred Lugh to gallop speedily north.
OVER WIDE OPEN glens and rolling scapes Ban Talah rode, through dense forests and rushing streams. On she pushed Lugh until they reached the perched abbey by the unrelenting sea. Dirt kicked from Lugh’s massive hooves, storming a whirlwind of dust to kick behind as he galloped into the courtyard.
With one move, Talah had slid off the saddle and sprang to a lengthy step, her boots echoing through the covered passageway and up the stone steps until finally plunging through the giant oak and iron doors of the abbey’s altar room. The chamber was dull and lit only by a few candles, solemn in its serenity, just as she had left it. Only now, her cloaked figure stood in shadow to the slice of sunlight that crossed the floor before her. Before the altar, Bran stood in his Druidic white robes with head bent and hands clasped in prayer. On the altar lay a figure veiled by a thin, white linen.
The color left Talah’s cheeks. A sudden shudder overcame her, and as he turned an eye over his shoulder Bran’s impassive features drew Talah’s heart to weep. Tears swelled in her eyes. Scrutinizing his gaze she then noticed that he wasn’t looking at her at all, but behind her. Talah followed his gaze and felt her knees weaken to the smile she thought she’d never see again.
“Danann.”
Talah hesitated at first sight of her, then with an elated smile came upon her and she embraced Danann tightly, shouting loudly through the silent little chamber. For a long moment, Talah held her face with both hands and looked in her friends blue eyes, tears freely flowing down her cheeks. Alive. Indeed, it was as Ian had said: grace had been born to all.
The afternoon sun spread its pale white rays through a pillowy gray cover, combing the moors beyond the abbey. Ban Talah and Danann sat on their horses on the ridge above Newcastle Abbey looking down to the Abbess Orla and Brother Erolf. Talah watched as Brother Erolf waved to them before turning on foot. He was promptly stopped by Orla’s hand. In a defeated slouch he then slid a bottle of sacrament wine out from under his sleeve, handed it to the abbess and toddled off quietly.
Talah laughed at the scene. A moment before, she had laid the little rowan cross of St. Bride’s, now withered, on the mound of her beloved Marion. With gentle musings she met again Orla’s eyes. Regally erect in all her nobility, Orla’s attention never wavered from the women. Finally, she raised a warrior’s salute. Talah accepted the honor, as did Danann, and returned the salute with pride.
With acknowledgment, the abbess quietly lowered her hand and turned away, departing into the covered passageway. Talah lifted her head as breezes danced through her thick strands of soft black hair. She felt content. Now that the land was again its own and the king did not suffer among the masses, maybe now it would be easier to contend with Rome and the Celtic church without the wickedness that was. She eyed the quiet little abbey one last time and mused at such freedoms again before turning Lugh and spurring him north. There was still much to do and much to b
e done on this, another day under the reign of King Henry II.
About the Author
An American author A.L. Duncan won a teenage poetry contest at 14 at her local library, and has kept the embers of the writing craft burning quietly ever since. Dabbling in blogs, newsletters and papers for local and privately owned organizations, only recently has she decided to expand her horizons to publish the many works she has joyfully created. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her partner and writes fiction where history makes cameo appearances, and poetry is nestled in nooks.
Another title from A.L. Duncan
The Gardener of Aria Manor
Janie O’Grady is a woman quite adapted to her life and circumstances as they are, living in New York City during the Great Depression. A hint of cynicism clouds the cold winter streets and keeps the rum runners strange bedfellows to the Irish mob’s bounty in and out of speakeasy’s, daring to brush shoulders with the neighboring Italian mobs. At a moment where Janie fears for her life she is presented with circumstances which seem like a harsh nudge from the heavens to decide her own destiny.
Feeling there is no other choice, Janie makes the fateful decision to change her identity and move to the Devon countryside on the coastal shores of England, as a Head Gardener to a 17th century manor, where
déjà vu and the intrigues of a past life and murder mystery overshadow her life in the big city.
This tale invites you to peek into the pages of one woman’s life and follow her incredible story of self-discovery of a very different kind; where looking back at one’s past includes connecting the threads of passions and desires of a life lived before. A life lived where one’s odyssey must wait to complete the circle in the next life.
ISBN 978-1-61929-158-4
eBooks ISBN 978-1-61929-159-1
