Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  Bounding like lambs, the children gambol from the grass field to the meadow, leading Rachel into slovenly hedges at the remote end of the garden. Hares startle away at their approach. Swifts skid out of the blue, flit over the hedges, and scatter into distant trees.

  Effie topples to her back trying to turn herself fast enough to follow their flight, and an unexpected laugh jumps from Rachel. Soon, she drifts through her sorrow, astonished at the lightness of her body, hiding-and-seeking with the young ones in the slum of overgrown hedges.

  Horse hooves clop nearby, and because of the children's giggling and her playful skulking among the shrubs, Rachel does not hear them. She pokes her head into the glittery interior of a sunstruck bush to surprise curled-up Joyce, and hoofbeats drum behind her.

  She startles and looks up at a hurtling red-maned horse and, astride the majestic beast, Erec Rhiwlas leaning hard to the side, his muscular arm reaching out.

  Rachel’s cry is lost in the impact of collision as Erec seizes her about the waist and hoists her off her feet. Hugged tight to the brawny Welshman atop the galloping beast, she watches the children's wide-eyed faces wobble away.

  Erec laughs hotly at the baroness' startled expression and tilts his body to peer past her streaming black hair. The willows jounce by, and Leora jumps up with her hands in her red hair, shouting. She blurs past, and they charge into the flowerbeds, cutting the shortest path to the toll bridge road, poppies and daffodils kicking up behind.

  "Release me!" Rachel shouts, and her cry whips away in the rush of their flight.

  Erec's robust laughter streams like a banner. When Crooked Simon, the gardener, rears up from the hyssop patch with hoe in hand, the chieftain's son bears down with a war cry, sending the old man sprawling among the herbs. The horse bounds through a verge of acanthus plants and kicks up road dust on its headlong drive toward the toll bridge.

  At the sight of the baroness in the embrace of Bold Erec, the gatekeeper rushes to lower the barrier. The horse has leaped out of the garden too quickly and too close, and the gatekeeper, alarmed at what would happen to the baroness if the charger—galloping at full tilt toward him—stopped abruptly, stands aside.

  Hooves clanging loudly over the planks, the red-maned horse hurtles across the bridge. The Welshman rides with his brindled head reared back, jubilant, triumphant. Rachel, eyes smarting in the wind, body jarred by the desperate run, clings to him. The gawping gatekeeper glimpses her helpless fright and watches the steed dwindle into silver dust among tall trees and the shining hills.

  -/

  At day's end, the knights still roam the forest's murk, searching for the Lady of the Grail. Gerald returns under the brazier of sunset. Harold rides into the castle with the evening star, and Gianni comes back soon after. Only Denis continues to search as moonbeams spindle through the woods. The bedraggled trees and tumbling meadows gleam strangely with lunar sorcery.

  -/

  Branden Neufmarche sends his guards ahead as a shield before he rides over the drawbridge of his castle to meet the two horsemen on the boggy meadow. Though he knows that Guy Lan-franc and Roger Billancourt need him, he fears them nonetheless. He would like to dispatch them to the Continent to serve the king, but he fears they will gather a mercenary force and come back for his domain.

  "What news, brother baron?" Branden inquires when close enough to hear his enemies’ reply yet far enough away to avoid treachery. Since losing Thierry as a guest and potential hostage, he has had to take more care in his meetings with these desperate and dangerous men.

  "Erec the Bold has carried off the Pretender," Guy answers. "As we speak he ruts with her in the hills."

  Branden frowns at his indelicate appraisal. "So the barbarian has held her to her promise of betrothal."

  "And now," Roger adds, "is the time to strike. While she is gone—perhaps not to return—a sizable show of your men will make a siege unnecessary."

  Branden ponders this. "I think not. The Lady of the Grail has a faithful following."

  "But we have our own allies, Branden," Guy says. "I can guarantee that the drawbridge will be down when we arrive. With enough of your men, we can subdue the castle. In the span of one day, the fighting will be done, and you can return my keep to me, the rightful baron. By that act, you will earn not only the lands I've promised you but my lifelong vow of friendship."

  "And the king?" Branden stalls for time to think.

  "The king will say naught," Roger answers. "The so-called baroness has been spirited away by a barbarian chieftain. Guy Lanfranc is thus the rightful legate even by the king's standards."

  Branden nods thoughtfully. "I will submit this strategy to my counselors."

  The single dark crease in Guy's forehead darkens. "What more counseling do you need, Branden? The Pretender is gone. The barbarian is wedding her on her back in some leaf bed not far away. Once she realizes she belongs to him, they will return. Do you think she will be content to live in the hills?"

  "And when she returns," Roger picks up, leaning forward in his saddle, "Bold Erec will be at her side and with his men. The castle that lies open for us now will become a barbarian fortress, from which he can sack your lands with impunity."

  Branden shifts his weight uncomfortably. "The other Marcher barons will not accept this. If the barbarian takes the castle, they will ally with me to overthrow him."

  "Certainly," Guy concurs, and narrows his gaze ominously. "But if that happens, I will be the one who rallies the barons to the defense of my ancestral domain. And when the barbarians are routed, the castle will be mine. The lands you would have had will be given to those who fight with me. And we will not be your friends any longer, Branden."

  -/

  Erec carries Rachel off the king's road and down the deep trails far into the hills. They ride toward blue clouds of mountain rain, higher at each turn in the path. Emerald slopes appear below patched with dark trees. Alder and ash groves pass, webby with light, the duff so thick that hooves fall utterly silent, and Rachel feels she floats through this wild land.

  Scents of mulchy leaves, dog roses, crushed mint, and honeysuckle drug the air, and Erec, intoxicated with it, sings idly and tries to draw out the Servant of Birds with insouciant charm. Rachel sits heavily against him, so much baggage. When they stop beside a creek for the steed to drink and rest, Erec pads the saddle with a folded blanket and reminds Rachel of her promise.

  She says nothing. Emptiness fills her.

  She is merely stunned by this abduction, Erec thinks, assessing her hollow stare. In time she will thaw. Confident of that, he remounts and offers a thick arm, but she remains motionless. Her buttocks ache from the hard ride into the hills, and all she wants is to sit here in the sun-shot woodland, in a cloud of spices, listening to the purling creek while she searches for the words to tell him she is not the Servant of Birds.

  "You are my bride now," Erec insists. He snatches her arm and pulls her close enough to hoick her into the saddle. "I answered my promise. Now, by heaven or hell, you will be mine."

  Objections stir in her, but her jaw clacks shut with the jolt of the horse hurrying off.

  Erec follows the cobbled path of the creek until a fallen tree blocks their way. Then, they plod among clustered beeches to open slopes on higher ground. While the sun slides toward purple-crowned mountains, they ride from hill to hill, down into dark dells of roisterous oaks draped with ivy and back up into hummocks violet with heather.

  Finally, on a heath of gorse silvery in the thunderlight of towering rain clouds, Rachel can endure the spanking ride no longer. The stifling emptiness that resists nothing abandons her. She seizes Erecs beard and manages to shout, "Let me down!"

  Quizzical surprise softens Erec’s hard frown. He has been determined to cross this treeless down and reach the shelter of clumped woods in the blue distance before the rain begins, but Rachel’s look has become too frantic to ignore. He stops the horse and lets her slide off.

  "Erec Rhiwlas," she says fi
tfully, rubbing her stunned backside, "I am not the Servant of Birds. I am David Tibbon’s granddaughter, Rachel."

  Erec brings a leg over the horse’s neck and sits side-saddle, smiling confidently. "I know you're not the Servant of Birds. Longsight Meilwr said so. And bards don't lie."

  Rachel accepts this with a gruff nod. "Fine. Then leave me here and go back to your people. You don't want me."

  "Oh, you're wrong: I want you, for certain." Erec grins cunningly. "Together, we will rule Epynt as the Welsh are meant to. Erec the Bold and the Servant of Birds—chieftain and baroness—we will unite the tribes."

  "It will never happen."

  Erec is surprised at the vehemence in Rachel's tone. "Why are you outraged? There will be little violence. We will rule by cunning and compassion. I learned something of that from you, Servant of Birds. By deception, you unseated Guy Lanfranc, whom all of Howel's army could not defy. And by generosity, you won the fealty not only of your castle but of the Welsh, who have loathed the Invaders for over four generations. Together, Bold Erec and the Lady of the Grail will earn the respect of kings—Norman and Welsh!"

  Rachel backs away. "I am done with deception. I am not the Lady of the Grail. I am not the Servant of Birds. I am not Ailena Valaise. I am no baroness. I am a Jew. A Jew, do you hear! I am David Tibbon's granddaughter. I am Rachel. Rachel is my name."

  Erec juts out his lower lip and lifts his tufted brows. "I like it. Rachel. I will use that name only in private. I will never forget who you are." He puts a broad hand over his heart, and his eyebrows tilt sadly. "I understand now your grief at the rabbi’s death. I swear to you, Rachel, I will learn who murdered your grandfather, and I will avenge his death."

  Rachel shakes her head so strongly her long hair tosses. "No more killing! There will be no more killing. Leave me. I am done with it all. Go back to your tribe. Let Guy have his castle. Forget me."

  Erec slips off his horse. "Rachel—I could never forget you. I want you as my wife. I want you more than I want power over my enemies. We will forsake the castle then. You will come live with me in the hills."

  Rachel shudders at the thought and, turning away, strides through the snagging gorse toward a flare of sunlight lifting colors out of the bracken. Her anger spent, she drifts weightless, a mere ghost. Divulging the truth has unburdened and cleansed her of all pretenses. Even emptiness feels acceptable now.

  She wisps over cracked limestone and through claws of bracken—a sentient vapor, wafting away. Only the guise of her body remains. She feels hungry, and she wants to urinate.

  "Come back," Erec calls and laughs. "You belong to me now."

  Rachel knows she will never belong to anyone, ever. She will not allow it. Her hand clutches the bane-root folded in her robe. She is more determined than ever to be free of everything, to elude her captor, to slip away from her lies and her grief, to shed her hollow body.

  An almost blissful warmth pervades her as she removes the black twist of root. And she feels grateful to Erec for carrying her out here into the wilderness, where her dying will not appal the people who have come to need her.

  The stillness quivers. A cool, wet breeze laves over her, and she looks up at silver auroras of rain ruffling above the remote horizons of hills. Among the mighty clouds, the sky opens, blue and vibrant as a flame.

  Her gaze falls deeper into the highlands, into the tremendously vast and mysterious terrain with its long valleys, rocky crags, and dark groves. The soul's light, nearly invisible, tints this vista with an opal sheen, summoning her out of this world.

  "Rachel," Erec says from behind her. "Come with me before the rain starts." He takes her arm, and she twists away.

  When she faces him, rancor clots her stare. "Don't touch me! I don't want you to touch me. I don't want you at all. Get away from me!"

  She runs. Her robe snags on the bramble, and it rips as she flees heedlessly. Her sandals scruff a mousy odor from the rock and the dry root weave. Fearful of Erec's brute strength, she jams the bane-root into her mouth as she runs. The bitterness of it burns her tongue and hurts her sinuses. She gags and clenches her teeth, breaking the blistery husk of the tuber and releasing its acrid poison.

  Erec snatches her by the shoulder and whirls her about, ready to heave her over his shoulder. Then, he catches the anguish in her eyes and the thread of black saliva drooling from her mouth. He claps his hand to her back, and she spews forth the broken earth nut.

  He smells it and jerks it away into the brush. "Bane-root!" His glare rages a moment then goes flat. "You'd poison yourself before you'd have me?" Seconds pass as his growing hurt couples with his ire. "Go, then!" He gruffly pushes her away, ashamed that he has been fooled by this madwoman. "I don't want any woman who loves death."

  -/

  A mere fume of a woman, with tangled hair of dried frost, crusty earth-rimmed nostrils, and two black gleams for eyes in a sunken face, Pig-eyed Mavis clings to Gianni's arm with bony hands. Her lichenous flesh appears dull as ash in the afternoon light slanting through the narrow window.

  Madelon has already ducked out through the tattered flap of bark that serves as a door, clutching the woven grass satchel with the brown, wrinkled berries that will kill the child inside her. Gianni cannot extricate himself from the hag's spidery clutch. Sneaking Madelon out of the castle at noon proved easier than parting from this witch.

  Thinking the witch wants more money, Gianni hands her three more obols and backs out through the bark-flap. He exhales, glad to get away from the fusty stink of plaited weeds hanging from the knotty poles that support the briar roof. He thanks the hag yet again, but she will not release his arm.

  Her pig-small eyes gleam closer, and he feels the sour heat of her breath on his face: "Moons and moons, she sees only the children of the fields, who pay for their herbs with a chicken or a rabbit. And now in this one moon alone, two knights come to Mavis. And of a sudden she's got coppers and a gold coin." Her face widens about a snaggle-toothed grin. "Be kinder than the knight before you and linger with Mavis, tell her tales of the castle and the Lady of the Grail. Come, stay a while."

  Gianni pauses in his retreat, and his obsequious smile slips away. "What other knight visited you?"

  The corners of Mavis' wrinkled mouth turn down. "How's she to know that? Have you told her your name? She'll call you Dashing Blackbeard. Then he would be Sir Battered Head. His skull looked dented as an old kettle."

  Gianni looks to Madelon, who has been listening from beside the horses. "Roger Billancourt!" she guesses.

  "The castle's warmaster." The witch ekes a whistle. "Mavis has heard of Roughshod Roger—never saw him, 'less that was him. Could have been, now's she thinks on it. He had the scars and the gruffness, all right. Wanted what you'd expect a warmaster wants—power to kill. Gave her a gold coin, too. A copper obol would have done. Was just two wicked twists of bane-root."

  -/

  Rachel wanders in a daze. The bane-root has set her blood tolling in her ears. Rain sighs in the gorse, glittering about her, touching her with its cold points of light. For a while, she thinks she is dying—all the colors of the world look brilliantly glazed.

  She verges at the brink of her body, feeling as though about to loft free through the rain into the powerful clouds. Her legs, however, insist on working. They move her among the heather toward the clumped trees of the valley. They root her to the earth.

  Glottal whisperings ride the wind from the mountains—distant thunder promising more rain.

  Heart treading firmly in her breast, Rachel comprehends that death has not accepted her: She had not consumed enough of the bane-root to die. Lifting her face, she feels the riddling drops beat against her closed lids.

  A root catches her gait, nearly tumbles her headlong. She curses—then laughs at herself, soaked, alone in the wilds, orphaned by death. Her laugh clutches the deepest breath in her and amazes her with its loud strength.

  The emptiness she has felt since Grandfather’s death has filled the who
le brimming sky. No voices haunt her now. Only the voice of the thunder, monotonously mumbling, and the sizzling of the downpour in the gorse shine in her. Sodden, her hair and garments plastered by the cloudburst, she laughs and cannot stop laughing at the fact that even death has abandoned her. Grandfather would be happy at that, she is certain.

  She stops and throws herself to the ground. If death will not have her, she belongs then to life—all of her, the flesh and the lies, the hungers and the fears, all of it carried along swift as the clouds above, full as the emptiness that carries everything.

  She rolls over and watches massive cloud banks hanging over the undulant hills break into showers. A strange, holy light slants through the malignant violet of the tumbled cloud masses. Luminous green slopes appear briefly, as if to assure her of her solitude. Then, the clouds close and the world silvers.

  Rachel traipses downslope, crushing thyme and bog-myrtle underfoot. Their spicy scents sting her nostrils. Her laughter has calmed to ticklish apprehension: Life and death have their own order, apart from any meaning the heart can grasp.

  From the bottom of her misery, she cannot help loving whatever fills this emptiness. Let it be lightning streaks and thunder, forest mists and nightfall—and—if she lives to see it again—let it be the castle and all its lives.

  Seized by the bane-root's intoxication, she lets her life slowly reclaim her. For she is convinced she cannot throw it away again, or even lose it here among the endless gateways of the rain.

  -/

  Moonlight brightens the clouds to a magical boiling mixture, and the stars glisten among them like dark bubbles. There are too many rabbit holes to continue on horseback, and Madelon adamantly refuses to spend the night in the forest. So, Gianni and she walk together through the silver woods, leading their mounts, and bickering.