Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  A man sits sleeping beside the hut, lance across his lap. Swiftly, Erec draws his dagger and plunges it into the guard's throat.

  Rachel's heart jumps, and she feels her madness stir and strain inside her. She forces her attention on the Grail within her, and the terror abates.

  Erec has cut the cord binding the door and already moves inside. Denis follows and then Gianni. Rachel looks for other guards and distinguishes only the huddled shadows of the dogs at the far end of the camp. The wet sound of their feeding trickles on the wind with the slack rustling of branches and an occasional rasping snore nearby.

  The interior of the hut clinks with money pouches as the knights stuff them hurriedly into their saddlebags. The musty air glitters with the noise of it, and Erec shushes them.

  Rachel discerns mounds in the black stagnation of the hut, dark outlines traced by the amorphous shine from the low campfire. She lifts a pouch and startles at the dense weight and loud brattle of the coins.

  Wincing with every jingle of the loot, she packs one saddlebag so full she can barely lift it. The other bag contains her five Saracen grenades, which she leaves untied.

  Denis and Gianni exit the hut hunched over with the weight of their sacks. Erec ushers Rachel out ahead of him. As they cross the threshold an explosive yell scorches the night.

  The dogs spin about and charge across the glade. Doors bang open, shadow shapes lurch out with lances and staves. The clang of swords and shouts rips from all sides.

  Surrounded, Erec motions the others to cut their way through the dogs while he stands off Dic Long Knife's men.

  At the first cry of alarm, Rachel has thrown two of her grenades into the sleepy fire. They explode in streaking flames and whirling sparks that hang in the sky, and come down as fiery talons.

  With broad strokes of his sword, Erec clears a path through the startled men, and the raiders flee among the huts. Gianni and Denis push Rachel ahead of them and hack at their pursuers.

  Rachel pulls out another grenade, but in the rush of their flight, she has no chance to ignite it. When they reach the shrubs, she looks back, sees Gianni hurtling past her, grimacing with fear, and Denis standing, swinging his broadsword double-handed.

  Hands trembling, Rachel crouches, yanks out her firestone and flint and sparks the fuse on a grenade. It lobs over Denis' head and erupts in the air, showering the violent silhouettes with veils of flame.

  Denis peels away, and Rachel hurls another bomb. Its blast robes men in fire, and she stands momentarily transfixed, watching fighters drop their weapons and dash aflame among the trees, human shapes of screaming radiance.

  Erec seizes Rachel and drags her away. At the horses, Gianni and the Welshmen haul the heavy sacks onto the backs of the horses. Denis bends over, and when he straightens, his hands come away from his chest black with blood. Rachel bites back a cry and moves to him, but Erec stops her.

  "Have you more of your devil's fire?" He points to the shadows advancing through the glare among the trees.

  Numbly, Rachel takes out the last of the grenades. Erec snatches it, strikes a spark to its fuse as he has seen her do, and pitches it into the midst of the attacking tribe.

  With a throb of thunder and a clout of searing brilliance, a red holocaust flares among Dic Long Knife’s men, and they scatter, shrieking with anguish and fear.

  Gianni helps Denis onto his white stallion, and the two ride together, using Denis' mount for a pack animal. Erec orders his two men to lead them out, and he follows close behind Rachel.

  Once across the rushing stream and up the steep bank, they pause and look back at the last serpents of fire writhing and vanishing into true darkness.

  The last stars are gasping overhead by the time Castle Valaise comes into view. The stone fortress sulks in its noose of river. Denis rides unconscious, and Gianni keeps assuring Rachel that he yet lives.

  "When the king's men depart," Erec promises, "I will come back for you." He slaps half the saddlebags over his horse. "You were brave, Servant of Birds. You will make a worthy wife for this chieftain."

  He offers his hand. She takes it, and it feels resolute as steel.

  -/

  "God is laughing," Denis rants.

  Rachel has had him placed in her bed, and the castle physician has packed his chest wound with purslane and parsley. "He has lost too much blood," the physician announces. "He raves. Angels and devils are fighting for what remains."

  While the physician retreats to his apothecary to prepare a blood fortifier of toad gall and gold dust, Rachel, Gianni, Ummu, and Harold attend the wounded man.

  "God is laughing at you," Denis husks. "Look at you all, standing, staring. You think I'm going to die." His eyeballs roll up white.

  Gianni and Ummu, who have attended the dying often enough to know, share a dark look.

  "God has all the answers," Denis whispers, eyes fluttering. "He seeks questions. Ask more questions! God craves questions." He laughs, stiffens, then sags.

  -/

  Thomas enters Rachel's chamber, and Harold gestures for silence. "Denis is sleeping. He has been wounded."

  Thomas knows, having spoken with the physician. And he has looked into the saddlebags heaped in the front hall of the palais and seen the silver coin. "From where did this money come?" he asks Rachel when she steps from the bedside.

  "From a tribesman called Dic Long Knife."

  "The bandit?" Thomas regards her smudged, desperate face with broad surprise. "You're mad to risk so much for money. Now Denis lies dying in your bed!"

  Rachel takes his hand imploringly. "Pray for him, Thomas." Her face, exhausted with sorrow, holds urgency. "He must not die for this! And pray for me, for surely I will go mad." Already the sight of Erec's blade plunged into the guard's throat, the razoring cries of the burning men, ghastly sights of bodies consumed in flame have begun to ferment in her. And she fears what terrors will come with sleep.

  "Grand-mère—the Grail—" Thomas cannot help showing his disappointment. "You have drunk from the Holy Chalice. God has privileged you above all others. And now you steal, you risk your life and forfeit your knights' lives—for money? Why?"

  Rachel blinks. The indictment from this countenance, forlorn as any angel's, scalds.

  "I have been returned ... to my domain to rule," she answers weakly. "Pray for me, Thomas."

  "I will pray for Denis," he says slowly, "but I leave God to watch over you. You do not need my prayers." He lets her hand drop, turns and walks away.

  -/

  Ummu calls Rachel aside. In the passage, he leads her to a window alcove where they will not be overheard.

  Below, she sees Thomas striding across the courtyard, returning to the donjon, and anger invades her sorrow: He doesn't understand. The castle is saved. His mother and sisters will not lose their home.

  "The king's penalty is paid," the dwarf tells her. Ta-Toh climbs from his shoulder onto the windowsill and licks the pane. "You are duly installed as the baroness of this small realm. Why now do you insist on this ruse?"

  Rachel continues to stare out the window. He is bluffing, she thinks, too emotionally wrung from the long night to care. He cannot possibly know. "The truth or a lie—the world's emptiness must be filled."

  Ummu stands back, startled by the depth of this woman's reply. "I am not saying that you must declare your true identity to the world, my lady. That would destroy you, certainly. But those dear to you must know. You must disabuse Thomas and Gianni. These are souls of glass, fragile souls that kindle only with the light that shines into them. Do not impart lies to them."

  Rachel looks down vacantly at the little man and hugs herself. "I've never heard you so serious. Where is your wit today, Ummu?"

  "It lies bleeding with Denis—who might well be Gianni, the man who carries my soul. If I am to lose my soul, dear lady, I will forsake it only for the truth."

  "There is that strange word again," she says, feeling briefly touched by the power of that word, seeing herself
as a wastrel wandering the country lanes with her grandfather, their feet wrapped in rags. The memory leaves her shaken, and she must touch the signet ring to remember all that has happened since. "What is the truth, Ummu?"

  "Not what you pretend to be."

  Rachel drops her arms and looks out the window again, watching sparrows flutter against the wall ivy. "Do you not yourself pretend?"

  "I am a dwarf. No pretense will change that."

  She looks back at him sadly. "Who do you want me to be?"

  "Who you really are. Tell me who that is. No more pretending. No more lies."

  "The truth sees me as I see the truth." She sits on the ledge, and Ta-Toh crawls into her lap. "After all that has befallen me, I am not at all sure who I am, or even was."

  Ummu frowns. "And you are not what you are. That much I know."

  "Are you so sure, Ummu?" she asks, squarely meeting his dark gaze.

  "I do not believe in miracles. Look at me! If there were a God of love, would He have shaped me so?" He clicks for Ta-Toh, and the monkey leaps into his arms. "The only miracle is that so many people in this brutal world still believe in miracles."

  -/

  "She has the silver," Roger Billancourt announces to Guy, Thierry, and Branden Neufmarche as he rides over to them. They stand on a hill crest with the reins of their horses in their hands. In the distance, Castle Valaise lifts her lean towers. "The villeins know all about it." Roger dismounts, chewing his lower lip. "No attempt at secrecy has been made. She raided Dic Long Knife’s camp with Erec the Bold."

  "She did?" The corners of Branden's long mouth turn downward. "She is a doughty old girl, I'll say that for her."

  "The foray was not without cost," Roger adds. "Denis is gravely wounded. He may already be dead."

  The shiny-faced Branden smooths a wrinkle in his tunic. "Denis—Hezetre? The archer. Your old chum, isn't he? I recall your mother telling my père some years ago now that you and Denis were more than just fond of each other. How does that work for the two of you?"

  Guy swings around to clout Branden, but Roger seizes his arm and hauls him back.

  "Does that offend you?" Branden gloats and casts a glance over his shoulder at the dozen lancers mounted at the spur of the hill. "I'm merely curious. I mean since losing your root in Eire, how do you do it?"

  Guy's face clenches, and he says through gritted teeth, "Shut up!"

  "Hard luck about him, though," Branden says complaisantly. "Perhaps you had better hie back and see if your mama has truly found the coin for the king’s penalty. That will change our plans somewhat, no? I don't think it would be wise for us to siege a tax-paying legate of the king for no more reason than your greed."

  Guy stares at Branden through slitted eyes, then turns away abruptly, mounts, and gallops off.

  Roger purses his lips, assessing the stout, weak-chinned man before him in his crisp blue tunic with the gold chaplet resting in his vaporous strawberry hair. "Use a little restraint with your tongue, Sir Branden," he advises. "Guy may be under your thumb now, and we do need your protection. But we are your best weapons against Castle Valaise, whoever may occupy it."

  Branden glares and says coldly, "Consider this partial payment for the siege of Castle Neufmarche, which you failed to complete. And also consider—now that the baroness has her money, you are weapons I may no longer need."

  Roger climbs onto his horse. "You may need us more than you know. Ailena did not enlist Erec the Bold’s help for free. It is said she has agreed to marry him. Who will your allies be then—when the barbarians are raiding you from their own castle?"

  Branden runs his tongue slowly over his teeth as he ponders this. "I will trust in your vicious grasping, Billancourt. You took the castle from Ailena once before, for Gilbert—now take it again for Guy. Use my men to seize the silver from her if you can. And do not forget who has been your ally at this dire time." He turns and signs for his soldiers to follow Guy to Castle Valaise.

  Roger bows his head in gratitude. "The lands we promised will be yours in perpetuity."

  "And no more sieges, Roger, please."

  Roger smiles grimly. "Never."

  The gray-whiskered knight rides off, and Branden watches glumly. If he could trust his men to kill Lanfranc and his warmaster, he would, Branden thinks. But his men admire these predatory foes, these soldiers' soldiers who savor the smell of horseflesh and who sleep more soundly on the ground than in a bed. Only fealty to his dead father has kept his soldiers faithful to him, though he is not even a pallid shadow of the gallant warrior his père had been. He would rather entertain earls and flirt with their daughters than hunt or ride or play the gruesome war games his sergeants find so engrossing. His troops would loathe him for murdering Guy and Roger outside the field of combat and might even defy his orders to do so and go over to their side. No, Branden tells himself. Far better to keep these devils in our debt.

  Branden turns to Thierry. "You've said practically nothing since you've come here, lad. Tell me, as an erstwhile enemy, what do you say will come to pass between your charming uncle and his blessed mother?"

  Thierry watches Guy and Roger riding through the trees and says in a somber voice, "Only blood will answer that question."

  -/

  Denis winces awake. Guy's angry face bends close. "Dic Long Knife tried to cut your heart out—but there wasn't one there, was there?"

  "You took it from me long ago," Denis rasps, throat parched.

  Guy's tar-black eyes glister. "Here's some water, drink." He holds his friend's head up and places a full cup to his lips. "Slowly, now."

  Denis falls back, water running down his chin to the blood-sopped bandages across his chest. "I'm thirsty."

  "Then you're going to live." Guy feels the flaccidity in Denis' muscles, the utter exhaustion, and he is afraid. "The more miserable you feel, the stronger the hold of your flesh."

  "I'm miserable."

  "Good." He thrusts his jaw forward. "If you die, I'll kill the bitch who did this to you."

  Denis closes his eyes wearily. "Don't harm her, Guy. She is a valiant woman."

  "Bosh!"

  "She is. Took every risk we did and pulled us out. She pulled us out."

  "Be quiet now." With a soft cloth, he dabs sweat from the wounded man's brow.

  Denis forces his eyes open to search Guy's face. Only he has ever seen tenderness in Guy, and his look brightens with the hope that he can use his old friend's love to save the Lady of the Grail. "Promise me you won't harm her."

  "Would you believe me?"

  "Your mother has changed. She is not the viper she once was."

  "Be quiet now and rest."

  "Promise me."

  "My word. Now sleep. I will see you when you wake."

  Denis' lids close, his lips move, barely audible, "Ailena has the silver. The twentieth day of July..."

  "Saint Margaret's," Guy says. "I know. She will pay the king's men. You did well to help her. Now rest."

  "Your debts are paid," Denis whispers. "Leave her be."

  -/

  The villagers stand mutely in the street, watching the soldiers under Neufmarche's ravens-head banner toppling drying racks, stabbing thatch roofs, rummaging through grain bins.

  "The coin must be here," Guy gripes, kicking over a rain barrel. "Our man saw it taken to Merlin's Knoll, and we know now it's not there."

  "All we know is we don't know where to look," Roger mumbles and sits taller in his saddle. "Watch out now. The kitten is crossing the bridge with William at the point."

  "Hurry, you men!" Guy shouts. "Search every woodpile, every loft, every scuttle. The coin is here, I know it."

  "She's the Devil’s whore to hide three hundred pounds where men who can smell silver can't find them," Roger complains.

  A cheer leaps up from the villagers as Rachel and her men gallop into the town. Her sergeants surround her, swords drawn, and Rachel budges her horse through them to face Guy. Her blood roars in her ears so loudly the
world seems almost soundless. Within the turmoil in her blood, she can hear the thoughts of the baroness: To die here in front of all will complete my legend and doom my enemies.

  Guy knows this, and he pulls back from her righteous glare. "You have won by wiles," he hisses. "But winning power and holding it are different contests."

  "Dark, dark, dark—" Rachel chants. "Your hands reach for silver and close on the dark."

  "She is a witch!" Guy shouts to the villagers. "A witch has possessed you!"

  Rachel's sergeants surge forward.

  "Halt!" she orders. "He is still my blood." She banishes him with a toss of her head. "Begone and do not return, Guy Lanfranc. You are not worthy of ruling, only of being feared."

  Guy looks away, but Roger holds her gaze. His rheumy brown eyes glint again with recognition. The old baroness lives! The canny bitch—she has gotten her revenge by going over to God. But then the Devil can't be far afield. And he has never been one to take defeat lightly. He will find her weakness and reveal it to us. Patience. He nods acquiescence and gathers the men with a shout.

  "William, are you with us?" Guy calls.

  William nudges his horse forward, and Guy turns and rides off with his minions.

  -/

  With Thierry and William gone with Guy, Hellene tries to soften her dismay by spending more time with Madelon, preparing her for her wedding and married life to come. "Perhaps there will be a place with Hubert Macey's people for your brother Hugues," Hellene hopes. "Maybe the earl will want Thierry in his charge, too. He's a valiant knight. We saw that in the tourney, didn't we?"

  Madelon wearily agrees with her mother. She tries on her wedding garments yet again so that Hellene can busy herself making adjustments that are not necessary. She listens patiently to her mother's endless assessment of Hubert Macey's fine qualities—his father's bravery at the battle of Drincourt in Normandie where he slew the count of Boulogne, his mother’s pedigree from the house of Champagne, his capacious, opulently appointed castle pensioned by the three prosperous villages adjoining it, his burgeoning stables, his many dogs. But she recalls from the few times she has glimpsed him at festivals and fairs that he has few physical qualities to commend him, being short, pocked, and squeaky-voiced.