Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  Rachel closes her eyes and pulls him to her. She will not let fear rob her of this moment, the one, perhaps only, moment she will know of love. She lets the emptiness of her grief carry away her fright and imagines herself floating, airborne with Thomas.

  She opens her eyes and sees him rearing above her. A stab of pain joins them. A cry widens in her throat to a gasp and then a sharp sigh. Molded by slick heat, they join. Their fused bodies burn in a hot commotion of limbs. At first awkward and clumsy and then in a perpetual delirium, they find the rhythm of their slippery pleasure and glide in each other’s arms, astute and flexible as old lovers.

  Later, they lie as if stuck together, exhausted by their relentless hunger for each other. Quietly, joy dims to tomorrow's hopelessness. And from this brightest moment, the future darkens.

  -/

  The chapel bell clangs furiously against the incandescent dawn. Rachel pokes her head out the door to receive the news that everyone has been summoned to the chapel. She refuses her maids' offers to help her dress.

  By the time she and Thomas arrive at the chapel, everyone has gathered. The guildsmen and their families jammed in the doorway part to let her enter. At the altar, Maître Pornic stands among a cluster of her sergeants. With his sunken cheeks and dark eye sockets, he looks like a cadaver.

  Rachel stands at the rail before the altar. "Who rang the alarm?"

  "I have," answers a thick-shouldered man with a fiercely ugly face—Gervais, the master of her sergeants. "Maître Pornic claims that you are not the baroness Ailena Valaise. He claims you are, in sooth, one Rachel Tibbon, the rabbi's granddaughter."

  Rachel's face goes pale. She glares at Maître Pornic. "Why do you foment this lie on the very day our castle's fate is to be decided?"

  "It is no lie," the holy man says vibrantly. "I swear on Christ's blood, it is the truth."

  The assembly gasp as one, and their excited murmurs echo through the vaulted chapel.

  Rachel tries to master her panic and says in a tremulous voice that the other’s mistake for anger, "Since my return, you have tried to usurp me, Pornic."

  "You have usurped yourself. I have been privileged to learn the truth from one among us in whom you confided."

  Rachel holds her gaze steadily on the abbot, knowing if she even glances at Thomas she will betray herself. Her throat is too tight to speak. Can it be true?

  "Thomas Chalandon has confessed what you have told him, Rachel Tibbon." Maître Pornic points a gnarled finger at Thomas. "I have betrayed your confidence, Thomas. And for that God will punish me. But I cannot allow good men to die defending a lie."

  For a near-eternity, Thomas stands stunned. He feels the eyes of those assembled upon him and realizes with despair that his simpleminded faith has condemned to death the woman he loves. "No!" he shouts, surging to the altar rail, face dark with fury. "I have said no such thing!"

  Maître Pornic gapes, appalled. "Thomas! Do not deny the truth before me. You jeopardize your very soul! If even one life is lost by this deception, you will be condemned to eternal damnation!"

  "I never said what you claim!" Thomas insists with all his breath. He turns about and faces the shocked crowd. "He lies! He is jealous of my grandmother's miracle."

  "Thomas is in love with Rachel Tibbon," Maître Pornic announces. "He would foster this lie for his own selfish lust."

  "It is not so! This woman is my grandmother."

  Maître Pornic beckons to the crowd for two of Rachel's maids to come forward. "Was Thomas Chalandon in your mistress' bedchamber last night?"

  "What does that demonstrate?" Thomas shouts. "Can I not converse with my own grandmother?"

  "At what hour did he depart her bedchamber?" the abbot enquires.

  "At dawn," one of the maids says, and the other nods. "At the ringing of the chapel bell."

  Cries of outrage erupt from the assembly. "Deceiver!"—"Witch!"—"Devil!"

  "Arrest her!" a sergeant calls from the throng.

  Rachel stands impassively, her eyes cold, staring at Maître Pornic, who watches her with a pitying gaze.

  "I spent the night taking war council with my grandmother!" Thomas calls out—and his voice disappears in the uproar of shocked cries and loud jabbering. He looks to Rachel to speak for herself. Only she can silence the outcry now. But he sees her pasty face, and he knows she is lost.

  Clare is on her feet with her hands to her mouth, staring with frightened eyes at her son. Beside her, his father’s head hangs low and his sisters argue with each other. Harold and Gianni stand dumbstruck. Only Denis shouts into the crowd, trying to win some silence. He is ignored.

  Maître Pornic has swayed enough of the sergeants with the fear of hellfire that no chance remains of calming them. And now the guildsmen, recognizing an opportunity to protect their profits from the ravages of war, shout, "Lanfranc! Lanfranc!"

  As William and Thierry take Rachel's arms to lead her away, she manages to hold her head up and even to dilate her nostrils as though angry—desperately remembering her training—though her insides cramp with fear.

  -/

  Rachel stares from her window at the inner ward and the curtain wall surrounding it. The few sergeants still faithful to her have posted themselves in the towers guarding the inner gate. Without them covering the drawbridge with their crossbows, the guildsmen would have swarmed into the palais and made a spectacle of Rachel's execution. She can hear their distant shouts of "Burn the heretic—burn the Jew deceiver!"

  The voices of the crowd sound small and far away, like the voices of the dead that had once haunted her blood until Grandfather died. Now, with no one to see her, she lets her fear loose. Her hands at her pallid face tremble, and she wants to cry, afraid of what the mob is going to do to her—but her fear of fear will not let her.

  Below, she catches Thierry running across the ward, the banner of the Swan he has taken down from the flag turret dragging behind limp as a shroud.

  -/

  "Did you confess to the abbot?" Denis asks Thomas as they hurry across the bailey. Most of the guildsmen and their families crowd along the inner gate, and the stunned people milling around the shops mutter with grave consternation, villeins and servants sympathetic to the baroness.

  A milkmaid seizes Thomas' arm. "Master Thomas, tell us true. Who is the baroness?"

  "She is my grandmother, the Lady of the Grail," Thomas answers earnestly. His anger at Pornic for betraying his trust and threatening his love offers a ready defense: "The abbot lies, thinking to counter a greater evil with a smaller one. He hopes to avert war with a lie."

  The milkmaid smiles gratefully and scurries off shouting, "Valaise!"

  "The villeins have faith in Ailena," Denis says. "They have not forgotten that Maître Pornic shattered the Sacred Visage and cursed their temple. Nor have they forgotten how the guildsmen took away the pigs the baroness gave them. If we can muster the villagers and bring them into the castle, we can rout the sergeants whom William commands."

  Thomas casts a worried look to the front gate where a knot of sergeants stands before the lowered portcullis. "The men loyal to Grand-mère are holding the inner gate to protect her. But these men here are the abbot's. They won't let us through."

  Denis claps a hand on Thomas' shoulder. "You must open that gate—and you must keep it open until I return with the villagers."

  "I—" Thomas' mouth works without speaking.

  "Remember who you are. With your grandmother under arrest and your uncle absent, you are by birthright the legitimate master of this castle." He unbuckles his sword and hands it to Thomas. "Take this and use it if you must. Now go. I will get my horse."

  Denis runs toward the stables, and Thomas looks at the gate. Before it, the burly men talk gruffly among themselves. He tightens the sword's cincture about his waist and shifts it as he walks, trying to make the weapon hang more comfortably. It simply dangles at his side, an unnatural appendage. As he approaches the gate, he hears his uncle's name bandied about i
n tones of cold respect.

  "There'll be moaning in Howel's camp when they learn Lanfranc is back," one of them says.

  "And they'll be moaning no less in Neufmarche's keep if Branden even tries to cut firewood in the disputed lands."

  "Guy will have Neufmarche shitting green in a week."

  Thomas stands before the men, and they pay him no heed until he says, "Open the gate and lift the portcullis."

  The sergeants stop their chatting and look at the young man with a mixture of bemusement and annoyance. "Go back to the palais, boy. Your mother may need you."

  The men laugh. "She's lost her mother! Go and console her."

  "Open this gate at once!" Thomas shouts.

  The sergeants' laughter flares louder.

  Thomas draws his sword, amazed at how swiftly the tapered steel slides from its sheath. The weapon hovers in his grip, so perfectly is it balanced.

  The laughter stops, and the granite-faced men watch him with level, flinty stares.

  "Put that away, boy. Don't draw your sword lest you're ready to use it."

  "I'll use it if you don't open that gate."

  The nearest sergeant unsheathes his sword. Thomas turns to meet him. With one upward stroke, the sergeant's powerful blow knocks the sword from Thomas' grip, and it clatters to the pavement.

  "Go back to your mama right now," the sergeant rasps, laying the edge of his sword against Thomas' cheek, "or I'll leave my mark in your pretty face."

  Anger sears through Thomas' shock. "Cut me, sergeant, and I'll watch you dance on the gallows! Don't you know who I am?"

  "They call you Tom the Dreamer," the sergeant answers with a grin. "Your face should be stuck in a book, Tom—not at the point of my sword."

  "I am Guy Lanfranc’s nephew," Thomas says coldly. "You'll be spilling his sister’s blood from my veins. That will not please Uncle Guy." With one finger, Thomas pushes the blade away from his cheek. "Put your sword away and open the gate. Or I'll see that you spend the rest of your days as master of the latrines."

  The sergeant's face tightens, and his sword rises menacingly. "You son of a cur—"

  The other sergeants grab him and pull him away. "Get Gervais," one calls to the porter.

  Thomas retrieves and sheathes his sword. A moment later, the master-sergeant steps out of the turret. The soldiers step aside for the bull-shouldered man.

  "Master-sergeant, open this gate," Thomas orders.

  "On whose command, Master Thomas?"

  "On whose command is it shut?" Thomas counters.

  "Sir William so ordered it."

  "I speak for the baroness," Thomas says. "Open the gate and raise the portcullis."

  Gervais shakes his large head. "You know I can't do that, Master Thomas."

  "Why not? Are you not the sworn vassal of the baroness? Are your word and your honor worthless, master-sergeant?"

  The scar creasing Gervais’ right eye twitches. "I've proven my honor with my blood. I am no longer bound to my vassalage. Maître Pornic has said this woman is not the baroness. She is a Jew."

  "Ailena Valaise a Jew?" Thomas laughs. "You are a turniphead, Gervais, to believe that. Have you ever seen a Jew? Maître Pornic has gulled you, for he knows that is the only way to break your devotion to the baroness. I never confessed to him anything of the kind."

  "You did not?" Gervais queries, his good eye squinting with disbelief. "You expect us to believe that the holy man has lied?"

  "Maître Pornic is devoted to the Church, not to our barony. He loathes Grand-mère for worshiping as Jesus did, rather than as the apostles that followed him. That is heresy to the holy man, and to combat that he would do more than lie. If he had to, he would fornicate."

  Several of the sergeants guffaw, and Gervais nods, comprehending. "We are sworn to honor and serve the baroness Ailena Valaise—not the Church," Gervais announces. "Open the gate! Raise the portcullis!"

  Seeing the portcullis go up, Denis mounts his steed and rides across the bailey. At the gate, he pauses to nod at Thomas, then gallops across the drawbridge and down the toll bridge road.

  "Who opened that gate?" a grim voice bellows from across the bailey. William Morcar strides angrily from the barracks. "Drop that portcullis! No one is to be admitted without my recognition."

  The sergeants flinch, and Gervais stays them with a raised hand. "Sir William, Master Thomas speaks for the baroness."

  "You fool!" William barks. "Didn't you hear the Maître? She is a deceiver! A Jew!"

  "The abbot lied," Thomas says flatly. "Ailena Valaise is the mistress of this keep, William. Go and release her at once or you will be charged with treason."

  William stalks up to Thomas, seizes his tunic, and jerks him to his toe tips. "Listen to me, you lovesick dolt. That Jew will never rule here again. The true legate of this domain is on his way here now. If you dare challenge him, you and your Jew lover will burn as heretics."

  "Gervais—" Thomas croaks.

  The master-sergeant puts a heavy hand on William's arm. "I am the baroness' vassal, Sir William," Gervais says apologetically yet firmly. "My men will follow me."

  William stares at him, confounded. "You believe this—this troubadour's son, who is not even a knight, who has thrown off his cassock? You believe him over the word of Maître Pornic, God's true servant?"

  Gervais pulls William's hands away from Thomas. "I am not a cleric, Sir William. I am a soldier and a sworn vassal. My allegiance cannot be swayed by hearsay. Give me proof that my mistress is a deceiver, and I will myself bind her to the stake and set her afire."

  A roar of crowd noise erupts from the gate. Denis rides proudly over the drawbridge leading the villagers. They had gathered at the toll bridge when they witnessed the Swan banner atop the turret struck. Now, they stream through the gate shouting, "Valaise! Free the baroness Valaise!"

  William gnashes his teeth, and wheels about to get out of the way of the rushing villeins. Thomas runs ahead of the villagers, keeping pace with Denis astride his mount. When the guildsmen see them coming, their cries dim away, and they pull their wives and children behind them and back against the moat.

  Denis stops the charging villagers by sidling his horse in front of them. "This is the keep of the baroness Ailena Valaise!" he shouts. "We will not dishonor her by murdering each other!" He pulls his steed around and addresses the guildsmen: "Those among you who will not stand with the baroness and defend her will leave now and make your fortunes elsewhere."

  Several of the guildsmen gather their families and advance. Denis and Thomas clear a way for them through the crowd, and they retreat under loud jeers and catcalls.

  As the gate to the inner ward opens, Thierry steps out, accompanied by five sergeants. Hellene and Hugues follow, imploring the young knight, "Take us with you!"

  William grabs his wife and stops her on the drawbridge. "Take Hugues back to the palais," he commands.

  Hellene, bleary-eyed with panic, cries, "No! Do not leave us behind!"

  William's thick-set face looks blighted. "We shall be back for you," he promises with concern. "You are safer here than in the field." He nods to Hugues. "Keep your mother out of danger."

  "I want to go with you, Da," Hugues insists. "I'm old enough to fight."

  William claps a hand on his shoulder and hooks a half-smile. "There will be other battles, son, be assured of that. But for now I must rely on you to protect your mother and Madelon. Where is your sister?"

  "I saw her with the canon," Hugues says. "The Pretender says they are to marry!"

  William's face flushes crimson with his restrained shout, and he moves toward the inner ward.

  Thierry snags his elbow. "Da, not now. We'll meet Rieti on the field."

  William lets his son pull him back and mutters, "I should have gelded him when I had the chance."

  "Then the Pretender would have us in the dungeon," Thierry consoles. With a jerk of his head, he signals Hugues to take Hellene back into the ward. "We shall have our proper revenge
soon."

  Father and son march purposefully across the drawbridge and through the throng of villeins, glancing neither at Denis nor Thomas.

  -/

  At the chapel, Maître Pornic and Gianni Rieti watch as William and his comrades lead their horses out of the stables and load their weapons.

  "You have lost the protection of the Church, my son," the abbot says to Gianni. He glances into the chapel, where Madelon stands in the dark, out of sight of her father and brother. "Do not lose your soul as well. Forget this woman who tempts you with the weakness of your flesh. I implore you, come with us and use your sword to avenge the deception that has robbed you of God’s grace."

  Gianni shakes his head. "I cannot, padre. Whatever grace God has shown me has come through a woman. Whether she be a baroness or a Jew, I will stand or fall by her. And Madelon. I have spent my life running after desire and from its consequences. With Madelon, my desire has found a home, and with it, the very idea of desire is changed and made holy."

  The abbot crosses himself. "Woman is the Devil's instrument."

  "No, padre." Gianni smiles tolerantly. "Your ignorance abuses you. Woman is a miracle you have yet to understand."

  The holy man frowns skeptically. "Nothing I can say will change your mind?"

  Gianni shakes his head.

  "Then God protect you," Maître Pornic mumbles and clambers down the steps to the mule that will carry him away.

  Gianni looks on dolorously as a good number of the sergeants mount up and take ranks behind the abbot, William, and Thierry. When the portcullis creaks closed behind them, he murmurs, "God protect us all."

  -/

  In the council chamber, grim faces watch as Rachel takes her place in the chair of state. No escape offers itself in the solemn stares that fix her in her role. Only Thomas, who watches with proud attentiveness, sees her as other than the baroness.

  His parents, Clare and Gerald, sit opposite her at the long council table, anxiously holding hands, eager for her to speak. Denis sits to her right, beside Rieti, his worshipful regard shared by Harold and Gianni to her left.