The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1)

by J. M. Stredwick

  Francis’s face twitches and he looks like he is going to be sick.

  “A coincidence.” He chuckles dryly. “Perhaps, yes. But now I am back. Returned from my follies.”

  “Follies? Is that what you call it?” I jest, scoffing at him.

  “We all have them, don’t we? Our weaknesses?” he simpers. “Women. They are fickle creatures.”

  “We all have weaknesses yes,” I agree with him on this. “It’s unfortunate you spent your time utilizing your weaknesses at the expense of another.”

  He laughs wildly, and I mark the flash of hostility in him, it gleams in the wideness of his eyes. I want to beg him to try me. I have never liked him.

  “You see?” He jabs a finger at the space between us. “You’ve never been properly introduced to your place in life. You think you can say witty things, mock others with a few twists of your words? Why not? Most of the time your father will save you. Or, maybe it’s that you’ve never been in a position where you are properly challenged.”

  “My coloring isn’t exactly a secret. I’ve been rejected many times. In fact, the night of that celebration was the first outing I had attended,” I explain. “If you think you are the first, you’ll be sadly mistaken.”

  My tone never wavers. I don’t feel self-pity. It is how the world works here. They see a young man with darker skin and black hair and they label him slave. Am I fortunate to be born here or would I be happier on that island with my mother’s family, living with the tribe of peoples that gave me half of my heritage? I don’t know them. I probably never will, but these are the cards I’ve been dealt, so they say.

  “Apparently, it’s not been enough to put you in your place.” He chortles, hanging out of the carriage door now, holding onto the wood handle with one lank arm.

  “Where is my place, exactly?” I test him.

  He guffaws loudly and jumps out, his fancy shoes squelching in the mud.

  “You said it yourself. Slave, servant…” He shrugs breathing heavily. “Take your pick.”

  “And what about you?” I lean my elbows on my thighs and stare at him. “Are milk-skinned men all cocky bastards like you? Too bad you can get away with acting in such disgrace. It’s a pity. If slave is the only thing someone can call me, I’d be a happy man.”

  Francis comes so near to the cart and then stumbles, reaching out his hands to grab the wood so that he will not fall over.

  “You’ll never marry the girl. Mademoiselle Bonteque is too far above you. It’s good you are leaving before you taint her with any more of your filth.”

  With each breath he takes his chest sags, and he raises an arm. I am unimpressed.

  “Ah, and did you return for Mam’selle Claire as I suspected?”

  He fixes me in a pompous expression and heightens himself. “She’ll be glad to marry me. I’d be doing her a favor. Especially if her beau was to discover…” He begins chuckling again, and throws a hand over his mouth. “Well, let us just say that she is anything but pure.”

  “Is that your plan? Blackmail her into loving you?” I tilt my head, pretending to be genuine, “Assaulting her character? You sound like someone I would want to choose. It’s almost poetic…”

  “She’ll come around to it.” He sways and I smell the rotting stink on his breath. “Sometimes, that is what must happen for things to go as they should.”

  I nod in disbelief at the disjointed malignancy of his character. I want to push him over into the muck and watch his face imprint. What stops me is the anxiousness I feel of him discovering Giselle. I blow out a breath.

  “Well.” I hold out a hand. “I wish you luck. All the luck in the world. I bet she will be glad to see you when you storm through those doors. I think she’s been pining away, crying over you, actually. Oh, but when you see her, remember…”

  I wave for him to come closer and he sobers a bit, leaning towards me.

  “She could have done something other than stay. She’s always been like wildfire, hasn’t she? Giselle’s told me this. Let’s think about it…if she’d have left, that would mean she had other plans wouldn’t it? It would mean that she really did not care all too much about…”

  I look at him as if I’m assessing him. “You. That it didn’t bother her much when you went on your sorry way. Because, you might think she’s a sad girl, but the truth is, and bear with me now, that maybe she was the one playing you. I suppose it’s a good thing she’s still up there, miserable and waiting.”

  “You are a fool, Benjamin.” He jerks back. “Fuck you. Get back to your charts and mapmaking. It’s all you’re good for.”

  I nod my head. “As I said, I wish you the best in your endeavors.”

  Francis glares at me, confused and belligerent. He glances into the cart once, and I attempt to glance back just as he does. I see a small sliver of silver fabric: her hem. He is silent for a moment then doubles back, sloshing about as he moves and flops into his seat like a dying fish. He is scathing as he calls for his coachman to proceed.

  As they pass us, I hold my breath. I wonder if he is looking back to inspect further. But I hear no stall in their wheels. Soon, they are gone and drawn into the stables that we’d just left. I think we are lucky that he was not sober when he saw. In the morning, he’ll know the truth.

  Giselle pops up from the back, chin at my shoulder.

  “Well, I fully enjoyed that,” she says.

  I smile at her and give her a firm kiss on her mouth then I flick the reins. We’ll be so far away they won’t be able to find us. Free from scum like him and fathers and mothers who think they own their children.

  Giselle

  I stare. We both stare. Standing across from the other, we are phantoms in our skins, prepared to the best of our abilities to give the other the key hold over our lives. A master lock. One that only we will be able to open and close at will. A crucible of madness, a fleshly tie. Or that is how I see it.

  We are solemn. His eyes, so bright, are unreadable and haunting. No emotion, just a gazing. I crumple my hands over the sleekness of my silver and ivory gown, gritting in in my clammy palms. Anxieties and adrenalines scourge my soul, and I cannot help but feel the deepest fear in relinquishing a part of the control over my life to the man standing before me.

  Though, I feel a pure trust in him, the night air chills and spooks me. What woman had no doubts before throwing herself at the mercy of a man?

  “Is the Good Sir and Mam’selle ready?” the chapel priest croaks.

  We go to stand before him. There is no one to witness, but what are we to do? I’ve heard stories of women marrying men in the shadows of the chapel, and when it suited the man, there was none to bar him from casting her aside. Claire was supposed to be the witness tonight, and my skin burns knowing that it all is far too precarious.

  Our trunks of items, the little we allow ourselves to bring, are contained by leather strappings on the backside of the coach just outside of the chapel. Built of an old crumbling stone, the building appears rustic and cautionary, no doubt the habitat for morning swallows and midnight bats at its peak where the bell tolls. I cannot imagine the old priest in his droning manner adhering easily to life in solitude. It seems that my father has not spoken to him, but rather pays his coin through a banker in Paris instead of speaking and tithing to the priest himself. It is no wonder the man had not argued of our improper coming here. He no doubt has a penchant for human contact, that and whatever Benjamin offered him.

  “Very well then,” he garbles, and I watch the pages of the ancient text fold open and he flips through the crisp pages.

  As is natural for a catholic marriage mass, he will read passages and bless us with holy water.

  The priest opens in a prayer that warms my twitching soul. I do not hear a word, only the tone and way he speaks. I will not tear my eyes away from Benjamin’s. The world shifts in a mystical liniment, oily and swirling around us. I am aware of the seconds in time that pass, as they seem to knock along like an absolute t
ease. Tick, tick, tick…the slow burn of time.

  “Praise be to God the Father, as he himself draws the youth into a holy and pure union in the sanctity of matrimony. Blessings be on both of you,” the priest says, tracing the cross upon our foreheads.

  Benjamin’s stoniness dissolves, a smile appearing. I recognize that his smiles are not only an indication of his happiness but also of his apprehension. I smile back in satisfaction, delighted by our mutual uneasiness. It is not so simple as one might think, this joining our lives for all eternity. I am certain that anyone who can carelessly go into a ceremony like this is unfeeling and most likely lost to their sanity.

  “Now, as prepared, a word from the holy book.…”

  So goes the verses he speaks. A long cord of words strung out and hung there for example. My heart is a messy thing in my chest, and I almost break away, walk down the lane of pews. In my mind, my heels would clatter as I march into the dark hand of nightfall, allowing the fear to exercise its impressive hold over me. Are we doing something wrong? Will there be consequences that I cannot bear?

  “By the power vested in me.” The climax of a wedding comes so suddenly and so contritely. “Now…”

  “Wait.” I raise an arm.

  I cannot face the law of a God, not when I have so many reserves in the way of tying myself to a man. What if I have been swept up in infatuation and not love as Claire has? What if the love I feel now has drowned out any wicked attributes that Benjamin holds? How can I, in honest thought, trust myself to make the right decision? I know that I need this to escape, but part of me hates that I feel dependent upon Benjamin for it.

  “What is the matter?” Benjamin whispers.

  “I cannot do this.” My forehead goes into my palms, and I stumble down the aisle alone, holding my beating mind as if it is a thing that will roll off and away if I do not secure it there.

  Benjamin’s footsteps can be heard thwacking the floors as he follows urgently.

  I step out into the night air, sucking in the look of the stars with a deep breath that soothes me, releasing the tense requital of the church.

  Is it really so much better, me rushing into a marriage with one man instead of another?

  “Why?” Benjamin is cumbersome, leaning on the bulky stone fencing that outlines the church’s perimeter. His hands grip the rock, and he looks at me with wildly beseeching eyes.

  “You would not understand,” I mutter. “And I cannot explain it.”

  Benjamin’s mouth sprouts a small smirk, one that reflects the chink I’d stabbed in his ego.

  “You don’t want this?” his voice is even, and it breaks me.

  “I...” I turn to face him, skirts rustling over the grass. “I do. It is just that I don’t know.”

  At the threshold of the church, the silhouette of the priest catches my eye. He stands there watching us, the night’s haunting chill crystallizing all movements. I feel like a deer being pursued by a hunter. Perhaps it is the darkness, the night’s secretive way that draws up the primal urgency within me.

  “Mam’selle,” the priest grumbles, fidgety in his stance. “Pardon, but there is no way to halt the transpiration of your vows. You are forever tied in matrimony to this man. All that must be done yet is to say the final words.”

  A cruel spearing of adrenaline curdles my stomach, and I place a palm to my navel. “What?”

  “It is finished. You are married,” the priest explains, his stare so severe he seems to be glaring.

  An owl coos, and the insects hum. I circle my arms round my middle.

  “So be it then,” I whisper, holding back the water in my eyes, sending them off to ponder the earth and mulch at my feet.

  “That is no way for a married woman to feel on the eve of their wedding.” Benjamin is right up flush against my body now, his own muscled length stirring the godless lust within me, his fingertips spidering up my neck and into my hairline, gripping there and forcing me to look into his face.

  I acknowledge him brusquely.

  “We must leave,” he whispers.

  “Alas,” the priest growls. “This is, albeit, a far cry from a normal ceremony of marriage. Be off with you. As I am sure I have done a foul thing in allowing this to pass.”

  The horse snorts, emitting smoky curls to the air before it, bony legs clopping urgently at our arrival. Benjamin helps me into my seat and then climbs in next to me, a ghostly look to his handsome face.

  “What was that?” Benjamin asks, his knees brushing my own.

  “I can’t explain it,” I say.

  He flicks the reins over the horse and we travel in silence. We roll over rocky paths and muddy hills. After we have distanced ourselves a great amount, I am drowsy and I lean my head against him. He allows me this, and I sway in and out of sleep. Sometimes, I awaken and look up at the cold twinkling of stars scattered across the dark sky.

  My sister is lost. I wonder if I will see her again, if what I am doing is the right thing. I remember her telling me to form my own plots, design my own future. What if all the things I have done were wrong? I am frozen in my doubts, perplexed and taunted by them.

  We have traveled for hours before Benjamin slows the cart. We are not near anywhere I know, and for miles there is forestry and grassy hillsides all quiet except for nocturnal life. My dress and cloak are soaked from the wet cold but the smell of the air is refreshing. He slows when he sees a shack.

  “They’ll have water for the horse and food,” he explains as he settles the cart just outside their property.

  “What of my mother?” I ask.

  He gives me a sardonic expression. “We are too far for her to catch us now. We’ll rest then leave. Marseille is only half a day longer. We should reach it by noon tomorrow.”

  I sit patiently as he heads to the doorway of the ramshackle building. He knocks loudly, and it echoes across the glen. I hear a person stirring in the dark of the home and then a candle is lit.

  “Yes?” An old man appears at the door, assessing Benjamin through a crack in the doorway.

  “I apologize for the time, Monsieur. We are travelers. Our horse needs water and I’ll pay you a good amount of deniers if you allow us use of your water trough.”

  The man is quiet for a moment then nods his head gruffly, slamming the door once Benjamin offered a few French coins. I can imagine the man and his family afraid of Benjamin being a thief or a killer, someone come to take everything from them. Luckily, it is not so.

  Benjamin returns and does everything necessary. He unhooks the horse from its containment, leads it towards their barn, and ties it near their trough. He sprinkles hay around its feet and wipes his hands on his breeches. I watch him through this, and I wonder if he has cared much for horses. I know nothing about him, only that I love and crave him. But then a ripple of fear in not knowing. My mind is imbalanced.

  He returns to me and unravels a few woolen blankets from the packs and lays them in the cart bed.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m going to rest,” he tells me. “Join me or not.”

  I am silent as he settles himself on the rigid wood, the cart creaking with his movements. I swallow tightly and suddenly feel cold and fearful. I shuffle my way down to where he is and sit myself beside him.

  My skin prickles with excitement and also unease, sending branching beats of euphoric anxieties through me. I want him to hold me, and I want to run. Despite my worry, I desire to look at every course of his skin, every place, every secret part of him. How is it that I am now so apprehensive? Before it was all play. Now, we are like branded cattle. Branded by the hot iron of our vows, belonging to the other. A clarion sting. Perhaps it is that sting that ails me.

  Benjamin rolls over to face me.

  “What, are you to ignore me forever now? You profess love to me and then have second thoughts?” He scowls, arms crossed as he stares at the sky.

  “I am sorry,” I snap, seething in a way I had never thought myself capable of. �
��It is not easy, giving myself to someone.”

  “I’m not asking for your blood.” He snickers, hair resting over his darkening eyes, evermore outlandish in the skewed lighting. “You should have just said if you weren’t ready for this. I was under the impression that you wanted this. Giselle, tell me what I can do to make it right?”

  My heart lurches, smashed by shame.

  “I…” my voice falters, as thin as a thread. “I am afraid that our choice was hastily made. We were drawn together by the chaos and excitement of our situation, and we did not properly court. In fact, aside from those nights we’ve spent together, I do not know hardly a thing about you. You are a stranger to me. And what was I running from? A marriage that I did not want to be blindly thrust into. Yet here I am, having made the same decision for myself.”

  Benjamin nods curtly and rolls over once more.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Sleeping,” he says, fluffing the blanket. “As I’m assuming we are following the original plan to leave at first light? Or has that itself changed with your heart also?”

  His eyes are glazed in an attempt to be chivalrous, but I know that I have wounded him. How can he not be, as I was treating him as if I’d not wanted him only a day before. Someone I had not chosen to be with. As I look at him lying there, long legs stretched out before him, his golden pectorals peeking from beneath his linen shirt, a lawless part of me wants to go to him and straddle him, lean low and kiss him as if nothing has been done between us, as if I have not poisoned our wedding night.

  Doubt if I truly love him is not the problem or cause of my fears, because I love him like fire and ice and all the searing qualities of natural attraction.

  “Can I lay next to you?” I ask.

  “If you like.”

  I kneel down and feel my eyes glinting with the desires in my heart. My mind turns back to the nights we’d spent together in passionate exchange. Now I do not know what to do. I’ve insensitively reacted, carelessly corrupted the night of our wedding.