Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  Unable to contain himself, Guy lunges forward. With fury, he seizes her cape with his left hand and twists it tight about her throat. "I swear—tell me now or you'll not speak again!"

  Rachel twists loose of Guy’s grip. A needle of anger stabs into her heart. The baroness' voice rises without her volition. "The siege of Neufmarche's castle is lifted! That is my decree. And, dearest son, you shall pay reparations."

  "Never!" Purple veins throb at Guy's temples as he draws his dagger.

  Dwn clutches at his knife arm, and he slaps her free. She rebounds to heave herself at the furious man, but Rachel grabs her servant’s arm.

  "Stand back, Dwn. He will not cut down his own mother." Rachel backs away carefully, looking him steadily in the eyes. "Am I not the same woman who mended your wounds after your first brawl? Yes—do you remember that, Guy? What were you—I think but fourteen that summer, the summer you loved Anne Gilford, the cobbler's daughter? You fought three grown men for her honor, wounded them all and took your cuts without crying. But how you did cry when pretty Anne rode off with the miller's son to make their fortune in Gloucester! I rocked you in my arms then like a newborn babe."

  Guy's knife arm freezes. He stares hard at this woman, seeing then—or is he imagining?—the beautiful features that had awed him as a child, even as he had hated her for betraying his father. Is this truly she?

  A lash of white silk snags his knife arm and jerks him off balance. Behind him stands Falan Askersund, blond hair fallen in a long braid over his shoulder. His unraveled turban stretches taut between his hand and the captured arm. With a simple twist, the headcloth snaps, and the coin-weighted loop around Guy's wrist unwinds. Sternly, the Muslim knight turns aside, hand on his scabbard, and jerks his head for Guy to depart.

  With a last bellicose look at Rachel, Guy stalks out of the chamber, chewing his rage. Falan, too, departs and closes the door after him. In the tense silence that follows, the crone clutches her Servant of Birds, afraid for what is to come.

  -/

  David wears the ritual leather strap on his left arm with the small square leather box on his forehead. In the middle of his prayers, he hears the knock at his door. "Who is there?" he asks nervously, and prepares to remove the phylactery, then restrains himself. Though his granddaughter’s status as baroness has afforded him protection from the gentiles since they left Jerusalem ten months ago, fear’s old habit has made a nest in his bones. He has prayed about this many times and always come up with the same answer: The fish that leaps out of the water is a dead fish.

  He belongs among his people, not here in a gentile fortress in the northern wilderness, his granddaughter pretending to be someone she is not. How he hates that—yet, he is strangely proud of her. Though she nearly slipped into a trance during her questioning in the palais yesterday, she has been convincing in her role.

  "Rabbi, it is I," Rachel's voice calls through the door, and he opens it. She looks tall and imposing in her dazzling white robe of sendal silk ornamented with gold embroidery and pearl beadwork. Her hair swept up in ring-braids under a gold chaplet, only her mild expression belies her authority. "May we come in?"

  David stands aside, and the two women enter and go immediately to the window, where the scroll lies open on the broad stone sill. Falan Askersund, who has accompanied them, closes the door and waits outside.

  Dwn moves close to Rachel and does not disguise her uneasiness at the sight of the bearded Jew in his religious attire. In her whole life, she has never seen anyone other than Christians.

  In Welsh, she queries, "What are those leather straps on his arm and head?"

  "Tefillin, they are called," Rachel answers. "Within, they contain Holy Scripture, and are worn as reminders of God, except upon the Sabbath, which itself is a reminder. The prayer shawl he wears is called a tallit. The tassels advise us of the commandments given to Moses."

  "You speak as though you are a Jew already, my lady."

  "Jesus was a Jew, Dwn, so that has become my faith as well. That will also be the faith of this castle while I am here. We will worship as our Savior worshiped."

  Dwn puckers her creased lips and shakes her head. "Maître Pornic will find little favor with that."

  "Maître Pornic is no longer our parish priest," Rachel says matter-of-factly, regarding the open scroll. "Gianni Rieti will minister to the castle for now. He has been studying with Rabbi Tibbon since Jerusalem."

  Dwn clucks knowingly. "Now I think he is studying with Maître Pornic. On my way back to the castle at first light I spied them together atop Merlin’s Knoll deep in prayer."

  David and Rachel exchange nervous glances. "I will address that in the great hall today," Rachel says. "That is why we are here, Rabbi. I will formally introduce you today during my installation in the great hall. These first days will be difficult, for as many disbelieved our Lord in his time, so many will surely disbelieve me."

  "You are always in my prayers," David answers sincerely and adds, looking at her sharply, "Though perhaps it is best if you do not impose the original faith of Rabbi Yeshua so quickly upon these people. Let them keep their own worship and you keep yours."

  "That is wise, Rabbi," Dwn agrees, with some relief.

  "That shall be so in the domain," Rachel says flatly. "But in this castle, where I dwell, we will eat and praise God as did our Lord Jesus Christ."

  "Eat as did our Lord?" Dwn echoes hollowly and plucks at the hairs on her chin mole. "The castle swineherds will marvel over that news."

  "And the cooks will marvel at our new disdain for swan and heron and hare—and no more meat with cream sauces. Will you instruct the cooks, Rabbi?"

  "I should be more at ease to do so in your presence, my lady," David answers, eyeing her pointedly.

  "Then let us go to the cookhouse," Rachel says. "But first, Rabbi, lead us in a prayer as Jesus—or, as you call him, Yeshua— would have prayed."

  David nods. When Dwn drops to her knees, he gently lifts her up. "Friend, Yeshua prayed standing up, with hands open to God, to receive his blessing. Let us do likewise."

  And so they pray—and David’s voice issues from him in the language of his ancestors, proud in the strength of his granddaughter, strong in the hope of life, and alive with God's splendor that was, is, and always will be.

  Rachel requests a moment alone with the rabbi, and after Dwn departs, she clutches his arm and says in a hot whisper: "Grandfather—he tried to kill me!"

  "Who, Rachel?"

  "The baron. He knows I'm not his mother." Her eyes are desperate. "I will never convince him."

  Though alarmed by the panic in Rachel's expression, David keeps his face passive. He pulls her close. "We need not convince him at all. The jewels the baroness promised are waiting for us. We have only to retrieve them quickly and quit this place."

  Rachel breathes deeply of her grandfather’s body heat and is calmed. "Yes. I will go to the abbey to get our treasure soonest. We will return to Jerusalem and be there for Passover."

  David pulls away to face her. "During the short time we are here, we must not make too much of worshiping as Yeshua did. Let the gentiles have their pork."

  Rachel shakes her head, and the fear in her face slips away. "No, grandfather. My father—your son—sacrificed his whole family for his faith. He would have sacrificed me, too, if I had been there. I have forsaken everything else to play this role, but I will not forsake our faith."

  David puts a gentle hand to her cheek. "I understand." He leans closer, peers at her beseechingly. "You must be careful. You are right to be frightened, and fear makes you vulnerable to the frights of your past. When you dwell on those frights, you say troubling things. What was that you said in the great hall about fire? That did not sound like the baroness."

  Rachel looks at him blankly. "I don't know. The young knight Thierry made me think about fevers and death, and the words simply came to me."

  "You must restrain that," David warns. "The Persian magician has not healed your
grief. He has merely hidden it—and when it finds your voice, it speaks from Rachel, not from the baroness."

  -/

  A loud blast on trumpets assembles the household in the great hall. The rushes and flowers on the floor have been replaced with fresh blooms, and the tall, arched windows are open, admitting sunshafts, spurts of wrens, and summery breezes.

  Guy Lanfranc and Roger Billancourt have sat in their chairs long before the herald's call, sulking and glowering as they watched the servitors change the Griffin trappings to ones embossed with the baroness' device.

  As Clare and Gerald, with their children and grandchildren, take their seats on the cushioned chairs of the front rank, the other castle dwellers arrange themselves on settles behind them: first the knights, with their sergeants and squires; then the guildsmen and their families; and behind them the castle villeins on benches at the back.

  The dwarf, Ummu, and his monkey familiar, Ta-Toh, cause an excited stir as they somersault in, prompting an irate sergeant to raise a quarterstaff at them.

  At the foot of the dais, on a cushioned settle that faces the assembly, Gianni Rieti sits between the gaunt Maître Pornic and the bearded and shawled Rabbi Tibbon. Gravely, they watch as Rachel enters the great hall at the back, escorted by Dwn and Falan Askersund. And they note the rapt wonder in the faces of the villeins as she nods to them and to the older servitors—attendants, maids, and guildsmen whom the baroness knew before her pilgrimage.

  Gerald Chalandon, as castle steward, greets Rachel in the sunlit front of the great hall, drops to one knee and kisses her signet ring. His large, sallow skull glows amber in its cuff of silver-streaked hair. His stout wife, Clare, beams beatifically at her youthful mother.

  Rachel curtsies to the holy men before ascending the dais and taking her seat in the canopied chair of state. Behind her, on a stool, sits Dwn with Falan farther back, obscured from view by large banners embroidered with silver-threaded swans.

  The array of staring faces chills Rachel. These strangers gaze at her with open-mouthed reverence as though she came before them as some holy icon—except for the hard-eyed Guy, his warmaster and the abbot whose face is lowered in prayer. She wants this presentation over and done, but she dares not reveal her trepidation.

  At Gerald’s signal, a herald blares his trumpet, and the hall falls silent. "Will you have Ailena Valaise, lately returned in blessed guise from the Holy Land, as your present undoubted baroness and suzerain?"

  Cries of "Fiat!" fly to the rafters from the assembly of knights, though Guy and Roger remain ominously silent.

  "All those of knightly rank who will serve in liege and life the baroness Ailena Valaise come forward and do homage," Gerald demands loudly.

  Denis Hezetre rises and stands before Guy. "You should lead us in this, as you've led us in all else," he says quietly.

  Guy glares darkly at him. "I'll kiss the Devil's buttocks first."

  Denis does not even look at Roger. He mounts the steps of the dais, goes down on one knee before Rachel and kisses her ring. He is followed in turn by Harold Almquist, William Morcar, and his son Thierry, who pauses first before Guy and receives his nod. When they are done, they stand to the right of the chair of state and face the assembly.

  "These are my knights," Rachel says in a strong voice. Her strength surprises her, for she trembles to see the Frankish warriors whose brethren destroyed her childhood home. To go on, she must call up the Grail and stare into its gold luster. Then, she knows what she must say. She looks down at Guy. "They honor me with their lives. Why has my own son refused me this honor?"

  Guy stands, hands on his hips. "I do not recognize your right to rule this domain," he says sourly, and anxious murmurs flare through the crowd.

  "The pope and the king recognize her right," Clare announces angrily, pointing to the lecterns on the dais where the two vellum documents face the assembly. "Behold. They are there for all to read."

  Guy returns his sister's scowl with a sneer. "Dearest sister, perhaps you have not heard, but the pope who signed that writ is now dead."

  "Be quiet, the two of you," Maître Pornic interjects abruptly.

  "Celestine the Third surrendered his soul to heaven in January. It is our intention that our new Holy Father, Innocent the Third, shall study the writ and confirm that a miracle could indeed have been performed for one as worldly as the baroness."

  "My mother was no more worldly than Saul before he became Paul, or the tax collector who became Jesus' disciple," Clare protests. "Are not all sinners subject to grace through penitence, Maître?"

  "Celestine the Third was ninety-two when he signed that writ," Maître Pornic adds patiently. "The new Holy Father has the sensibilities of a younger man and should review that document."

  "I say the pope’s age makes no difference," Clare persists. "The Holy Father is infallible."

  "Lady Chalandon is correct," Gianni states. "The authority of the Holy Father can never be impugned."

  Guy ignores the canon and bows to the holy man. "Thank you, Maître. Your reservations are sufficient for me. Moreover, within this past month, the king has officially changed his seal. Malchiel, the king's seal-bearer, was drowned off Limassol on the journey to the Levant. When his body washed ashore, a peasant found the seal on the corpse, and the king bought it back from him. I know the story, for I had to pay the heavy fee for use of the new seal."

  "Which," Clare adds mockingly, "was used to decorate a penalty decree for your rebellious support of John Lackland against his brother, our good King Richard."

  As hoots and catcalls resound in the hall, answered by gruff challenges from Guy's sergeants, Rachel feels the baroness' presence stirring within her, gathering words that swell with a pressure in her lungs.

  "Children," she calls down from the dais. "Silence! I am rightful ruler of this domain, and my rule has been and will again be affirmed by both the new pope and the king. In the meantime, I will not hear my status debated any further. I owe faith and loyalty to my knights and my people as much as they to me." She looks cunningly down at Guy and the warmaster. "And to that end, I herewith declare that the siege of Castle Neufmarche is concluded."

  The back ranks, who have just learned of this, erupt into amazed and disappointed shouts: "God's blood!"—"Unfair!"— "We've won that prize!" At Rachel's signal, another blare of the trumpet silences the crowd.

  "Guy," Rachel addresses the scowling baron, who still stands. "As you will not pay me homage, I cannot assume your debts. The damage you have wreaked on Neufmarche you will restore in full, the exact sum to be approved by the seigneur you have assaulted."

  Again, the hall reverberates with astonished cries and harsh laughter from the back ranks, eliciting yet another trumpet blast.

  "Hostilities will also desist against the Welsh," Rachel continues. "The lands taken from them during my absence will be restored forthwith, and the fortalices on those lands given over to the local chieftains." For response to the ensuing outbursts of disbelief, Rachel looks over her shoulder at Dwn and catches the old woman's secret smile.

  The baroness raises her hand, and the hall quiets at once to hear what her next decree will be. "Today, the swine shall be driven from the castle, to be divided equally among the villagers. Pork, swan, and hare shall henceforth no longer be prepared or eaten in the castle. Neither will frogs and snails and all fish without fins and scales. Those who wish to eat these foods, which our Lord and Savior considered unclean, may do so in the village. The cookhouse shall be instructed by Rabbi Tibbon in the methods of food preparation that our Savior himself honored."

  Rachel gazes out over the great hall with the unique emotion of power. She has experienced something deep in her change. The chill that she had first felt upon facing this crowd of Normans has become a flutter of heat. The spirit of the baroness flexes in her like cleverness. She is no longer afraid of these Christians: She commands them.

  An exultant smile trembles in her to see the puzzlement on Clare’s chubby fa
ce, the futile anger in Guy's locked brow, and awe drenching the scores of people watching her, adhering to her every word. And there, among them, is Grandfather David, looking anxious, appealing to her with an upglancing look from his bowed head to conclude this assembly.

  "Tomorrow," she says, and the hall is instantly silent, dappled only with the twittering of wrens. "Tomorrow, I shall leave the castle to tour my domain and to seek counsel in prayer at Trinity Abbey."

  Whispers glitter in the hushed hall. Guy turns on his heel and, with his warmaster trotting as close after as his shadow, he strides out of the hall. Rachel considers stopping him. Just knowing that she can, with one word, is enough.

  After Rachel's accession to the barony of Epynt, her grandfather reads from the Torah in blessing of the assembly, before Gerald Chalandon dismisses the gathering.

  "Take heed to yourself, lest you make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land where you go, lest it be for a snare in the midst of you—'" David intones from the thirty-fourth chapter of Exodus when the rowdy crowd presses toward the dais.

  As the villeins reach out deliriously to touch this woman who has drunk from the Holy Grail, the guildsmen, apoplectic with indignation, surge forward demanding compensation for the funds and goods they have invested and now lost in the siege of Castle Neufmarche, and fist fights break out in the great hall.

  Above the cacophony, Rachel stands on the dais surprised by the violent reaction of the crowd. Her sense of command evaporates, and she feels suddenly frail and spent. The melee confounds her, and she doesn't know where to focus her attention. Squinting in the sugar-white morning sun, she searches desperately for her grandfather’s face in the angry crowd.

  She watches with mounting panic as the crowd swallows her grandfather and spirits him away, and for a moment she feels once again all the stupor of horror that she felt eleven years before, watching helplessly as a similar mob destroyed her home.

  The hive noise of the crowd rises up, urgent and implacable, and jars her to within a hair’s-breadth of falling out of herself—falling and being swallowed by the mass of red faces struggling angrily toward her. She sees nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The power she had enjoyed a moment ago has fixed her in eternity at the center of this patchwork of inflamed faces.