Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  -/

  At dawn, before lauds, the monks stop to garland the horse they have given Rachel in exchange for her oxen. They sing a jubilant hymn as she rides the steed majestically out the front gate, flanked by Falan and his camels. Gianni Rieti follows on his white stallion, with Denis Hezetre next and Thomas Chalandon on a cream-colored hackney at his side. Guy, Roger, and William ride ahead, as if alone.

  Rachel travels morosely, saddened to leave Dwn behind. Ailena had truly loved her, had once said, "Keep a watch for an old woman with a dark spur of hair on her chin. If she chance to be still alive, she'll be your greatest ally." And indeed she was that.

  "The truth is less important than what you do with it," Dwn had said. Rachel would not soon forget those words. The doing was all she could make sense of anymore: She had claimed her treasure, the just payment of her years-long devotion to a mean-hearted, and perhaps foolish, old woman. Where was the sense but in eleven bright rocks, eleven big promises for the future, for herself and her grandfather?

  Long barrows like fingers lead down from the mountains, their flanks dense with oak forest. The narrow path back to the castle rides high above those hills on a steep scarp. Directly below are gorges of thorn trees littered with scree. Rachel keeps her gaze on the winding road so as not to look down into the chasm where Dwn had fallen. Unexpectedly, the knights ahead stop and point among tall banks and hedges of hazel and holly.

  Instantly, Falan and Gianni suspect treachery from the knights, and draw their swords. Thomas puts out a restraining hand and points to a wall of whinberries, where human figures part the red-tinged leaves—Welshmen armed with spears, swords, and crossbows, who slide down the embankment dragging Thierry after them. The knights brandish their weapons.

  "Servant of Birds!" a brindle-bearded warrior calls in Welsh. "Put aside your weapons. I have in my clutches a traitor from your own family."

  Apprehensively, Rachel commands her knights to sheathe their weapons. Falan and Gianni comply, but the others do not. "If not for me," she shouts at Guy, "then put your weapons aside for Thierry."

  Warily, Denis removes the arrow from his bow, and the other knights reluctantly return their swords to their scabbards.

  "Do not come any closer," Rachel calls to the Welsh warriors. "I cannot control my knights. I will come to you."

  Ignoring her fear, Rachel dismounts, and when Falan realizes what she is doing, he tries to stop her. She insists. If she can help it, no one else will die saving her.

  Falan leaps from his camel, and, followed by Gianni and Thomas, Rachel begins to climb up through the bracken.

  William shouts to his son, "Are you hurt?"

  Thierry, hands bound, held by the scruff of his tunic, shakes his head sullenly.

  On a sandstone ledge facing the Welshmen, Rachel sees many more warriors lurking in the stands of ash and rowan on the mountainside. "Is this a trap?" she asks the brindle-bearded man.

  "No trap from the Welsh for the Servant of Birds," the large man replies cheerfully. "This whelk was found digging out a large boulder above this trail. Had it been released as you rode by, well—" He points with his eyes to the chasm. "You'd have been swept into the gorge and straight into the afterlife."

  Rachel turns a clenched stare on Thierry. "Is this true? Were you planning to kill us?"

  Thierry looks at her sourly. "Whatever I told you, you'd not believe me."

  The Welshman shakes him violently, wagging the youths face to a blur. "Speak the truth, you lout!"

  "Stop it!" Rachel demands. She knows that if Thierry is hurt there will be more bloodshed, and the thought appalls her. She knows that she is close to leaving this realm, and she does not want to depart on a trail of blood. "Leave him be. He will answer to his kin."

  The Welshman stops shaking Thierry and forces the lad to sit. "Tis your life you're playing loose with."

  Rachel looks over this warrior in his red leather leggings and purple fur-trimmed tunic. "You're a chieftain, to judge by your dress."

  "I am that," he answers. "Erec Rhiwlas. My father, Howel, commands these men." He points with his spear to a burly man with a white floss beard and a scarlet cape watching her intently from among the slender trees.

  The score of men leaning on their lances and gaping at her clearly know of her miracle. "We heard about your gifts. The villagers are talking of nothing else. And then we find this weasel here digging the ground from under a boulder."

  "Thank you, Erec Rhiwlas." She looks to the white-bearded giant standing in the crowd, the father himself, and nods deferentially. Ailena had told her about the famous and dangerous Howel Rhiwlas, whose sword is known in these parts as "Bloodghost," for the countless Norman and rival Welsh souls it has freed from flesh.

  Twice, the old baroness had met the chieftain at the lavish summer festivals she sometimes conducted in the meadows, and once he had honored her with a harp song that had much flattered the old woman. Rachel strains to recall the lyric and recites, uncertainly at first, then more strongly: "Your beauty is your wisdom – that protects you better than sword or lance – that wearies the hearts of your enemies with longing – and assures that they sleep less sound than you."

  The slope-shouldered warrior advances and peers at Rachel with slow, lethal eyes.

  "I carry your song with me," Rachel says with growing bravado, "still bright in my heart."

  By an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, Howel summons two of his men closer. They support an aged man, bald and mottled as an apple, with silvery eyes and a fist of a face.

  Rachel instantly recognizes him as Howel s bard, the man who had crafted that very song for him. Longsight Meilwr is his name, an acquaintance of the baroness since she was a girl. Now he is blind, and Rachel does not know what to say to him.

  Howel takes a lock of Rachel's hair and presses it to the ancient bard's face. The old man smells it, lifts his face to the night air, and abruptly falls back into the arms of the men supporting him. "She is not the Servant of Birds!" he cries out, lifting his spread-fingered hands assertively.

  The crowd of Welshmen murmurs incredulously. Howel nods as if he had known this all along. When he speaks, his voice is like summer thunder in a vast blue sky, "No matter. Whoever you are, you act as a friend to us Welsh. We'll not block your way."

  With that, he turns and strides away.

  Erec shrugs. "My father obeys the old ways. But I prefer to listen to my heart." He eyes her favorably and with evident interest. "I saw you when you first arrived. I brought Dwn to you. And now I hear of her accident from this churl. It is a sadness that she's gone to the saints. But may we all be so blessed as she when we leave this world. Your miracle at least took her out of her dung pile for her last days. Whether that miracle is truth or lie is not for me to judge."

  Erec rests his spear against his shoulder and dares to press his thumb to Rachel's dented chin. Though Falan flinches, alert for treachery, the warrior smiles, white-toothed and easy, oblivious to the watchful crowd. "No harm will come to you from me, Servant of Birds," he promises. "My hand is offered you, for whatever need—for I think the bard is right. You are not the baroness, the one of old. The Grail has changed you wholly." He removes his thumb. "This face I shall always recognize."

  -/

  Thomas looks more closely at Rachel as they step down from the sandstone ledge, Thierry skidding ahead of them, hands still tied. Thomas knows Welsh, and has heard what Longsight Meilwr said. Is the bard right? Is this some impostor who has stolen all of Grand-mère's memories?

  In Welsh, he asks her, "Why did Longsight Meilwr say you are not the Servant of Birds?"

  Rachel leans on him to steady her footing on the incline and says nothing until they have reached the road. Then, she says casually, "After all that has happened to me, Thomas, how could I be the same grandmother you knew, or the Servant of Birds that the bard praised? And what does it matter? Soon I shall return to the Holy Land." She puts a hand on his arm, and they stop. "I want you to tak
e your place in the castle. Before I leave, I want to announce you as Guy's heir."

  Thomas looks stricken. "No! I could never be baron, Grand-mère. I am not even a knight."

  She casts a disgusted look at Thierry. "Will this snake make a better baron? He murdered Dwn, and he would have murdered me today if the Welsh had not stopped him."

  "Grand-mère, you don't know that."

  "Perhaps you are right to refuse, Thomas," Rachel says thoughtfully. "If you are named heir, you will be Thierry's next target."

  William dismounts and cuts the thongs binding his son's wrists.

  "The Welsh say he was planning to drop a boulder on me," Rachel tells the others.

  Thierry sulks and sends an underbrowed appeal to Guy. "That is not true! I had dug a resting place for myself on the hillside as night was coming on. It sought sanctuary under a boulder, where I would stay dry from the night rains."

  "Why did you flee the abbey?" Denis asks.

  "She put the dark look on me," Thierry answers, turning his pinched face to Rachel. "While they buried the old woman, she stared daggers at me, as if I had killed her." He looks beseechingly to Guy. "Uncle, I admit I mishandled my horse and struck the ox cart. But it was an accident that killed the crone. And for that I am guilty. The bandits who captured me last night took my horse and my sword. That, I say, is punishment enough."

  "And I say not," Rachel asserts. "Dwn is dead. Whether by murderous intent or incompetence, my boon friend is dead. Remember, you have sworn homage to me, Thierry. If you are sincere, you must obey me and make reparation."

  Roger groans. "She's found her scapegoat."

  Thierry looks again to Guy, then speaks through gnashing teeth, "What reparation?"

  "A pilgrimage. To Saint David's at Land's End, to do penance at the shrine there, where you will have Mass said for my lost companion."

  Thierry rears back in protest, but William lays a restraining hand on his shoulder. The hand grips him tightly, until he says, "It shall be done." Then, the father's hand relents—but the son's heart continues to beat thickly.

  -/

  Ummu runs along the rampart walk at the top of the curtain wall to the trefoil archway that admits to the giant tower of the donjon. Following close behind, Ta-Toh flies after the dwarf, and the two bound up dark stone stairs and emerge into glaring sunlight on the roof of the great keep.

  The watch, leaning lazily against the masonry in the shade of the south parapet, startles and shouts "Halt!" Ummu ignores him and rushes to the edge of the broad roof, where a small round turret lifts the banner of the Swan high above the domain.

  With acrobatic ease, Ummu ascends the dizzy ladder to the summit of the banner spire, and there, with his monkey perched on his shoulder, he leans out over the precipice and peers into the wavy horizons of hills. Hand extended to block the twinkling of the Llan, he can see the procession of horses descending from the hill trail to the expansive meadows and elm groves that skirt the high slopes of the river.

  He had seen their movements from the wall below but was unsure who the riders were. Now he clearly discerns Falan's camels, Gianni's Arabian steed, and even the baroness' argent robes and silken scarves fluttering in the summer breeze.

  "The baroness approaches!" Ummu shouts to the watch, who frowns against the river glare and thinks he spies movement on the high road. "Sound the call! The baroness has returned!"

  The watch lifts his large horn and trumpets a loud flourish.

  In the three days that the baroness has been away, Ummu has entertained the senior couple of the palais with his formidable skill at chess and backgammon, his risqué anecdotes of life in the palaces of Jerusalem, and his antics with Ta-Toh. And though, like all others, they had regarded him with mordant fascination at first, they now openly profess that they feel happiest when he is at hand to quip with and to challenge them in amusing ways.

  Compared to the sultans and Latin nobility with whom he and Gianni had cavorted in the Levant, these people are unmannered provincials—yet, this is their castle, and Ummu has not forgotten that its comforts are far superior to the rude accommodations of the pilgrims' holy road.

  Best of all, with fair Madelon endeared to heart-worn Gianni, the possibility of his favorite entertainment looms: watching from secret hiding places the timeless, classless, and most sacred sport of amore.

  -/

  "Where is Ummu?" Clare frets. She stands before a newly draped tapestry depicting King Arthur surrounded by knights and paladins, among them Sir Gawain and Parsifal—and in the far right corner, half hidden by acanthus fronds, the jewel-studded Holy Chalice. "I must know what he thinks of this."

  Gerald Chalandon regards the freshly painted stucco walls, now brilliant red and yellow, hung here and there with other tapestries depicting Charlemagne, Saint Michael, and Roland. The rushes on the floor have been changed for the third time since the baroness' return and strewn again with fresh flowers and mints. "Your mother cannot doubt that you love her, Clare. You have received her like a popess."

  Ummu strides into the great hall, takes in the bouquets, posies, and garlands scattered everywhere and pinches his nose. "Even bees will suffocate in this air."

  "Ummu!" Clare scolds. "Do not tease. Now, what do you think of this tapestry? It took me all morning to find it. It belonged to Grand-père. But Guy had it taken down years ago."

  "That alone commends it, then, fair lady," Ummu says and studies it, hands on hips.

  "But do you think the image of the Chalice will offend Mother? Perhaps it is too artful."

  "And Mother herself is not?" the dwarf laughs.

  Clare glares down at Ummu. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

  "God has conformed her to His design, has He not?" Ummu shrugs. "We are made in His image, after all. Our only flaw is that we grow old—and we die. Your mother, however, is so artful as to defy even this!"

  -/

  David waits by the outer gate when Rachel returns. The whole time of her absence, he had remained in his chamber, reading from the Torah and praying for her safe return, fasting, accepting only water. He has felt too ill to eat, seared by fever and torpid with nausea. Rachel dismounts to embrace him and cannot help seeing the misery in his gaunt features.

  "You are not well!" she exclaims.

  "I am better for seeing you," he manages and must lean against her to remain standing.

  By the time Clare and Gerald and several of their children have walked across the bailey to greet her, Rachel is sobbing, trying to explain what has happened.

  Drained by the weariness of the trek, Rachel's guilt over Dwn's death is renewed by the sight of her long-suffering grandfather. Unable to understand her broken speech, David grows alarmed at her reaction, afraid that she has blurted the truth to her knights.

  Then, as Clare flusters over Rachel, cooing and cosseting and shouting orders to the servants, he notices behind her, in the front of the crowd, a strange young man with the solemn beauty of an angel. Clare notices too and cries out, "Thomas!"

  As Clare turns her loud affections on her youngest son, Rachel beckons to Gianni. "The rabbi is ill. Please, help me get him to his bed."

  "I will be fine," David protests but does not resist as Gianni and Falan lift him between them. "This will pass. It is just an ill humor from the long journey."

  On the way across the bailey, he listens with muted concern to Gianni's account of Thierry's treachery and Dwn's death. Warily, he glances past the Italian knight and his granddaughter, and watches Guy and his knights trotting off to the stables.

  -/

  Alone with David in his chamber, Rachel opens the thick wallet and shows him the jewels. "This is our freedom, Grandfather." David sits up in his bed and picks up the colorful stones. He studies the radiance imprisoned in the gems and feels the light in his own body brighten, despite his illness. "I was afraid Ailena might have deceived us."

  "She kept her word."

  "And we have kept ours." He lies back, the gems clutch
ed to his chest. "Now we must leave, at once."

  "As soon as you are well."

  "No." David is adamant. "At once. I will recuperate on the way."

  Rachel does not hide her alarm. "If we leave now, you will certainly die! Sea voyages sickened you enough when you were well. And overland journeys are too dangerous. We must wait until you are recovered."

  David closes his eyes. More waiting. "I would rather die at sea than leave you in jeopardy here."

  "Hush now and sleep." She removes the jewels from his grasp. "I will keep our treasure hidden with your holy books. And that way, at least for now, heaven and earth will be close."

  -/

  "You were harsh with Thierry," Roger Billancourt says.

  "Harsh?" The single slash of Guy's black eyebrows tightens against his livid forehead. "If his plot had worked—if the Pretender had been killed in a carriage accident or an avalanche—I would be called a murderer."

  They are alone behind the stables, where Guy paces between hay ricks, fuming. Roger leans against a post, watching horses' tails swish flies, imagining how furious the baron would be if he surmised this had been his warmaster’s tactic.

  "We must discredit her first," Guy insists. "The world must know she is an impostor. Then we can impale her head on the flagstaff if we please."

  "But the king's men—"

  "Let them come!" Guy shouts. "Let the Pretender pay the penalties."

  "She won't assume your debts except you pay her homage," Roger reminds him. "The king's men will put you in bond to King Richard."

  "I'll flee to the hills first."

  "Where Howel will truss you like a capon, as he did your godson."

  Guy stabs him with a black look.

  "There is another way," Roger says. "Defeat the Pretender in an assise de bataille, and exact the penalties from Neufmarche on threat of sacking his castle."

  "He won't pay," Guy mutters. "He knows there is too little time for a siege, and we have not the men."