When sunset draws its claws across the sky, heralds timidly summon the bruised, drunken, and exhausted knights to address the accruing complaints of the fairer sex in the court of love.
-/
Snatches of melody float on the air from musicians wandering in the halls and the court garden. The musical preludes lure the last lingering knights from the gaming rooms to the stone benches that line the vine-scrawled walls. Lanterns strung on twine encircle the terrace, where a dais has been erected. There, the ladies of the castle and of the visiting earldoms sit on cushioned settles with Rachel on the chair of state at their center.
Fragrances waft from the garlands that adorn the dais and from the freshly bathed knights. All odors of the stables have been purged by direct command of their lords, the earls having been sternly instructed by their wives and daughters that this event is to transpire without insolence from the men. Under the watchful gaze of the marquess and the earls, who sit, scattered like commoners, among the men, the handsomely attired knights gaup at each other's finery and genteel behavior with amusement.
A young knight rises and requests the attention of the court. He has been solicited by an anonymous knight to put forth the question: "Should marriage to another prohibit lovers?"
One of the countesses replies, "Causa coniugii ab amore non est excusatio recta."
Some of the knights frown ignorantly at each other.
"Marriage is no proper obstacle to love," the baroness translates.
"Even," the petitioner continues, "if the anonymous party is married to the Church?"
Gasps pierce the night, and the plucking of lutes from the troubadours stops. While the ladies busily contemplate this point, the knights murmur among themselves about which of their clerics is plucking the rosebuds of desire among the thorns of sin.
After grave deliberation by the full court, the baroness subdues ribald jests from the floor and, in silence still enough to hear the bassoons of the frogs in the moat, renders the judgment of the ladies: "Though the Church herself will deem us arrant, the court of love rules that mortal love supersedes immortal dogma. If the passion between two lovers holds sincere, it is inspired by God. And though it can never be sanctified, it must not be damned. Love, after all, is an inborn suffering."
Amidst outbursts of laughter and offended cries, Gianni Rieti breathes deeper as an iron weight lifts from his heart.
-/
The marquess sits in a dark corner of the terrace, obscured by the knights around him, sucking his gums and coldly watching the irreverent proceedings in the court of love. This new delight in chivalry and romance disgusts him.
What a waste of time for a man who has so little time left, each night budging him that bit closer toward forever. He wants his pleasures while he still may—an old face with an old root tired of poking dull-witted peasant girls.
He reviews the available ladies of the court, the daughters, nieces, cousins, all the pert fideles of the earls and barons. Young Madelon Morcar draws much attention from the lusty young men. A halo of mad ardor glows about her, with her reckless mouth and lithe body. Yet, there is also a green tinge to her complexion this night, for her great-grandmother, the Lady of the Grail, Ailena Valaise, has the eyes of twice as many suitors in the crowd.
The thought of the baroness stirs the old man's root. Every knight and squire in attendance would spit gall if he took this sloe-eyed, moon-pale maiden for his own, which makes him want her all the more.
-/
At the concluding ceremony of the court of love, the ladies petition for the devotion and protection of the men not only from outside enemies but from the men s own brutality. The castle garrison, on their own initiative, stands.
Master-sergeant Gervais, an ox-shouldered, lump-nosed warrior, his right eye creased closed by a vertical scar, speaks for the others, "We are simple men, we soldiers. We know our horses better than our women. The ways of chivalry are new and strange to us. And thus, we cannot promise always to be courtly in the ways of love. But to a man, we stand ready to give our lives for our baroness, mistress of this castle and land, Ailena Valaise, Lady of the Grail."
The men cheer as one, startling many of the women on the dais.
Rachel sits still, eyes bright as a panther's. She coolly observes the leathern faces of these scar-riven, thick-jawed men who love the idea of her but who would hate her with as much passion if they knew who she really is.
Gervais holds up a blunt-fingered hand to silence the soldiers. "All of us served your son, Sir Guy—many of us served you before your pilgrimage changed you—and a few, like myself, served your husband, Sir Gilbert. To each in turn, we gave our devotion and protection. But to you alone, Lady of the Grail, we would give our vassalage."
Awed murmurs thrill through the assembly and across the dais. Not even the marquess has the vassalage of his garrison, for it is a privilege usually accorded only princes and kings. These soldiers offer themselves as personal servants, willing to stand by her their whole lives even if they are not paid.
"With your permission, Lady, your garrison will approach and offer their fealty."
Rachel nods and rises.
Silence holds the court while each of the score of battle-marred men steps onto the dais, kneels, and, with his hands in the Lady of the Grail's, states his name and pledge of troth. When the ritual is complete, a virile cry goes up from the exhilarated men.
Rachel smiles, while her insides shiver before the ravenous joy of these Christian soldiers.
-/
A splash-black visage bares fangs, and Gianni Rieti shudders awake to find Ta-Toh grimacing down at him. Ummu tugs at his arm to pull him upright. "Good knight, this is a bad night for you."
"What are you talking about, you damnable dwarf. I'm sleeping."
"I am your eyes when you sleep. Up, good knight, and out, I say. For some other bad knight is also up but, sad to say, in and out."
Gianni shakes his head groggily. "I don't understand."
"Come with me and you will bless your ignorance."
"Then let me sleep and stop riddling me."
"No. You must end your ignorance or it will hurt all the more later. Come, quickly—for the other may come more quickly."
Gianni crawls into his tunic and slouches out of the room after his excited dwarf. Ummu leads him down the passage and up a curve of stairs to a closed door. "Open it," he says. "Ta-Toh went in through the window earlier and unlatched it."
Small pangs of debauched cries squeak through the closed door, and Gianni's hand hesitates, already knowing with a clotted pain in his heart what he will find. Ummu nudges him, and he cracks the door open sufficiently to witness Madelon and a young knight surging nakedly against each other in a turmoil of fornication.
Gianni closes the door quietly, pats Ummu on the head, pads softly down the stairs, and slams his brow so violently against the door to his chamber that he drops to his knees in a supplication of pain and remorse.
-/
The tourney climaxes with the melee. Knights divide into two camps and fight for possession of their opponents' banner. After the pitched battle, the field is strewn with splintered lances, shields hacked and broken, and the debris of shattered armor and dead horses. Shoulders and thighs have been hacked and broken and eyes gouged, but no one is killed.
Among the injured, Gianni delights to identify the bold knight who romped with Madelon the night before. Thierry, who caught the youth skulking down the stairs from his sister Madelon's quarters, has beaten him half-dead during the melee.
That night, at a final festival in a torch-cirque on the tilt yard itself, Gianni ignores Madelon's alluring glances and drinks himself into a stupor.
-/
Under the stars and gibbous moon, Rachel attends the marquess at the head table. Tonight, he leans closer as she pours his wine and touches her hands as she reaches for the trencher they will share. She smiles indulgently at him, disguising her uneasiness with small talk about the cont
ests. And, as soon as her noble guest has sated himself with food, wine, and jongleurs' music, she begs to retire, claiming fatigue from the long day and the loud company of drunken knights.
The marquess bows, kisses her hands, and waves her off. With puff-cheeked relief, Rachel escapes to the palais. As she is undressing, Falan knocks and announces the presence of the marquess.
Hurriedly robing herself, Rachel admits him, and he kicks the door closed behind him and crosses the room with a jagged gait, drunk and humming a troubadour's air.
Rachel feigns exhaustion, but the old man will not be deterred. "I must speak with you alone." He glares at the maid, and she ducks out of the chamber. "With my help, we need not lose this castle," he says, tilting back toward the door and latching it. "Or, if you wish, we can abandon this shabby place and you will have a finer estate in Shropshire."
"My lord, what are you saying?"
"I am without a wife. I have been so these last eighteen years. I had not thought I would ever—" He waves his hand, dismissing his speech. "Be my wife. I have only a handful of years left me. Serve me kindly those few years, and you will be well recompensed."
Rachel bows her head shyly to hide her revulsion. She has spent all the time she can bear assuring that this man's meat is mashed to a consistency he can gum, and she shrivels inside at the thought of sharing a bed with him.
The marquess moves up beside her, and the sour stink of wine wafts off him. "Will you be my bride?"
Rachel forces a smile. "My lord, I am not worthy."
"Nonsense. I am an old man." He studies the stiffness of Rachel's jaw, the downcast of her eyes. "But I am an old and powerful man. Your time with me will not be without its rewards."
Rachel permits some warmth in her voice: "I will consider your kind regard for me."
The marquess shows his gums in a broad smile. "Good. You have given me great pleasure. Now let me show you that your time with me will not be entirely fallow." He slips his hands beneath her robe and cups her breasts.
Rachel twists away. "Please. I am not a village girl."
The marquess presses closer and places his hands on her hips. "I would not marry a village girl."
"I did not say I would marry," Rachel confesses and pushes his hands off her. "Your kind regard dims in my eyes."
The marquess steps back and says in a dry voice, "I know your position well, Ailena. Perhaps better than you. On Saint Margaret's, the king's men will not accept charm. If you do not pay them, you will be a village girl, and your large and warm family will be no better than villeins."
"There are other castles where we may serve."
"Not if a marquess speaks ill of you."
Rachel meets the marquess' glittering stare with cold ire. "Is this how you woo love—with threats?"
The marquess fits himself against her and grabs her buttocks. "This is not your foolish court of love, Ailena. I woo with power."
Rachel vainly strives to pull free. "I am blessed by the Grail. Take your hands off me!"
The marquess laughs explosively. "You said the Grail sent you back into the world. Well then, Ailena, I am your lance." He trips her onto the bed and leans over her. "They say your moles and freckles changed when your youth was restored. Is your virginity restored as well?" He pulls up her robe, deftly blocking her kicks and blows. "I have seigneurial privilege to deflower all the maidens in my demesne. You will be no exception."
One of Rachel's blows smites the side of his head, and he rears back, fist raised, face twisted furiously. "Don't force me to strike you!"
"I will fight you!" Rachel cries. "I am not the child I look to be. I am Ailena Valaise. I am! And I will fight you!"
"I think not," the marquess says through a shadowy laugh. He leans his face close to hers and whispers conspiratorially, "You see, Ailena Valaise, my knights are now in all the key positions of your castle—my castle. I can do with you exactly as I please."
Shivering with loathing and abject dread, Rachel masters her voice, "You may force me, but you will have no pleasure of me."
The marquess leers and jams a hand between her legs. "Pleasure enough!"
"I will be better for you," she grates, squirming away from his groping hand, "if you let me come to you willingly."
"We will talk on that later. Now, let me see what you are offering."
"Falan!" Rachel screams.
Falan, who had thought wisely to weaken the door latch, explodes into the chamber, saber skirling the air. Two of the marquess' knights rush in. Before they can unsheathe their swords, Falan whirls about, his scimitar like lightning, striking the knights' cinctures and dropping their swords in their scabbards to the floor.
The marquess stands back from Rachel and straightens his tunic. "I am the king's man!" he bawls. "Slay me and you will bring ruin upon all of you."
Rachel rises, but her legs are too wobbly to hold her, and she sits heavily on the edge of the bed. "Your life is not forfeit. Falan, let him pass."
The marquess stands taller, nods for his men to pick up their swords and leave. "I yet hold this castle," he tells Rachel.
"But if you would hold my heart, you must be gentler."
"You would be my wife?"
Rachel looks up at him with gloomy eyes. "If I find no other way to pay what I owe." Her stare hardens. "And if you leave here with your knights and do not threaten me. Only then, should God provide no money to save my family, I will be your wife."
The marquess bows graciously and backs out of the chamber with a hard grin on his face, not looking at Falan.
-/
In the front hall of the palais, a narrow space with high windows and floor of patterned red and black tile, the marquess faces his sheepish knights. They clutch their unbelted swords to their sides and avoid his irate gaze.
Before he can voice his rebuke, one of them holds up a parchment covered with letters shaped like black flames. "The Jews' reply to the baroness' request for a loan. Our men intercepted it on the highway from Caermathon."
The marquess snatches it and holds it to the flame of a tallow lamp in a wall niche. It flares in his hand, and he drops it and watches it curl to a black husk.
"Send two men to Caermathon to speak with the moneylenders. The baroness is to receive nothing from them."
-/
Rachel lies on her bed, alone in her chamber, and weeps. Tears drain the fright from her and leave her relaxed. Her body feels smutched, and she wants to bathe at once but is too weak.
Loathing sits like a stone in her stomach. She knows if the money does not come soon, she will fly with her jewels. She will escape into the horizon.
The futility of that plan cankers inside, for she knows that she will not let her loathing or her fright kill her grandfather. Until David becomes well enough to travel, she will endure every indignity—even, if she must, marry the toothless old debaucher. She will not kill the man who struggled to keep her alive in the wilderness by chopping wood and digging graves.
To calm herself, she remembers the Holy Land, the glassy mountains seen through the heat veils of the desert. Her hot red heart bobs lighter at the memory of the community of stone houses, of Daniel Hezekyah and the simple life she had come so close to having. Simple as growing food out of the dirt. A life of small miracles.
Here, pretending to a large miracle, everything is as barren as the land of her nightmare. Will there be money? Will there be more murder? More rape?
Ghostly as an apparition, Thomas Chalandon appears in the lonely deep behind her eyes. Seeing his childlike smile, his large, wondering eyes, her loathing begins to drift away, and she calms down. She can pretend she is not alone. She can pretend they are together, safe and quiet in their distant arbor.
-/
At dawn, after prayers, when the revelers depart, Falan Askersund goes with them. David, ashen and trembly, insists on accompanying the farewell party. Rachel knows that he hopes she will change her mind and agree to return with Falan to the Levant, because he
makes sure that she packs the jewels along with the holy scrolls.
Rachel, David, Gianni, Denis, and a handful of sergeants ride with Falan and his camels under hilly horizons burbling with bird songs. Only once does Falan look back, stopping his camel at the crest of the first hill, not to admire the vista of the spired castle rising from morning mists and the molten-bright Llan but to ascertain that the marquess has removed his troops entirely from the vicinity. When he spies the caravan of black knights dwindling into the swell of the rising sun, he resets his gaze forward. They might yet return, or other threats could descend out of the forest’s gloomy tangle—but these are not his concern anymore.
Falan recalls the thirty-third sura from the Qur'an, and he recites it aloud, "'God suffices the faithful in the fight.'"
David, who learned his Arabic in the marketplaces of Tyre, Acre, and Jerusalem, understands. "We have only our faith to protect us now," he calls up to his granddaughter from astride his mule.
Rachel nods and pulls her steed alongside Falan as they continue. Last night, without Falan, she would have suffered what Ailena had endured with Guy's father, Gilbert. Rachel Tibbon, she knows, for all her acquired steel would not be strong enough to last this life.
Even now, in the gold brightness and leaf-glitter of morning, the darkness of the marquess' brutality clings to her. Voiceless wailing curls through her brain, leaking into the dim madness that has haunted her since the horror: Never and always. Time has not quelled the terror that found her years ago, when she was twelve. The years only buried it deeper. Time is no healer.
Falan has seen this dreamful expression on her face many times in the long months that he has been her guardian. At first, he had thought she drifted rapt in her illusions and deceptions, that she remembered the stories that Karm Abu Selim had magically instilled in her. But now, having witnessed these spells overtake her whenever some trouble from without assails her, he knows that he has gotten it backward: The illusion is remembering her.
Servant of Birds Page 31
