Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  They all know what must happen. Ummu alone, sitting in a window nave with his monkey, looks at her with an amused pugnacity, challenging her to say something meaningful before the destruction to come.

  The dwarf's glittering stare inspires doubt in Rachel. She lowers her head as if in prayer, and searches within for the Grail. The holy chalice is there—flashing gold and spilling blood so vividly her head jerks up with a startled expression.

  Since her recent wandering in the wilderness, her madness has retreated. She shivers with the dumbfounded nearness of insanity. The chalice of her destiny brims with the blood that will be spilled today! And she recognizes with sad clairvoyance that the killing to come is already inside her!

  She looks about in a fright, sees her fear reflected in the confused looks of the knights and Clare. Only a full confession can avert disaster, she thinks, and says aloud, "I have been too selfish. No one must die for me."

  Thomas leans forward to catch her eye and shakes his head, his face urgent.

  "My lady," Denis speaks. "We know you are tormented by the imminence of bloodshed. How could you deny the grace of God that has changed you and feel otherwise? But, be assured, we are not fighting so much for you as for your kingdom—the kingdom of Yeshua."

  Rachel looks stricken. A cold draft blows out of her heart, and she strives to recall the peace she had won for herself in the woods. That has vanished. The clear emptiness she thought she had glimpsed appears now as mere illusion.

  Everything crowds rapidly around her—the plangent faces of these men willing to die, because they believe her story—and, there, even the dwarf’s small, cold eyes daring her to be other than herself.

  "I cannot do this!" She stands and must touch her fingertips to the tabletop to steady herself. "I cannot."

  "Grand-mère!" Thomas calls out sharply and rises. "You and the land are one."

  Rachel holds his spirited gaze, and her bounding heart beats even louder.

  "Whatever the outcome," Thomas continues, "we must fight Guy. For the land itself. For the villeins that work it."

  "They all go into darkness," Rachel mumbles. The cold wind from her fluttering heart sends horrid memories racing through her, jagged images of slashed throats and corpses stacked like cords of firewood. What is to come has already happened, and will happen again. "Everything goes into darkness."

  The knights send alarmed glances at each other. Clare moves to rise, to go to her mother and comfort her, and Gerald stops her. He wants to hear his fate in the words of the baroness. Gianni crosses himself and begins a silent prayer.

  Thomas props his hands on the table, leans forward, and says fiercely, "You've come too far to stop!" His fervency softens to yearning, and he mouths voicelessly, "Remember!"

  In that woeful look, Rachel sees past her helpless fear to the calm she accepted last night with this man—to the ease she found in his arms after their passion had hammered them free of yearning. The cold wind in her veins slips away. The gory images that wring her brain vanish.

  She blows a heavy sigh, and a fugitive smile touches her anguished face. "I have come too far." She nods, directs her balanced gaze to Clare and each of her knights in turn, and finally, addressing Ummu, says, "I pray you to forgive both bad and good. All shall not be well—unless we make it so."

  Thomas sits, slips his hand in his jerkin to clutch his crucifix, and thanks God. Today there will be war. Without it, there would have been tyranny, which in the guise of rightful rule and the Church, has blighted mercy and love. He thanks God for inspiring his grandmother to send Rachel, to free them all from the stultifying tyranny of themselves.

  Whatever the outcome of today’s battle, they are no longer hidden in their fates. Grand-mère has flushed them out to fight, bleed, and die for what they want to be.

  "Clare," Rachel says in a new voice of authority. "I want you to prepare the great hall to receive the wounded. Go now, and on your way, send in the sergeants who are not on watch."

  Clare, pallid and fluttery, hurries from the chamber.

  "How long before Guy arrives?" Rachel asks.

  "If we wait till then," Denis answers, "it will be too late. Once Guy seizes the fields and the village, we will be forced to shut ourselves in. We haven't the resources for a siege. We must meet him in the open before he traps us here."

  "Then we must advance at once," Rachel says.

  "If it is not already too late."

  Gervais enters with a dozen sergeants, who line up against the frescoed wall, frightening Ta-Toh into hiding behind Ummu.

  "How many men have gone over to Guy?" she asks the master-sergeant.

  "More than a third, my lady," Gervais replies. "But the men we have—we are ready to lay down our lives to stop Sir Guy and Sir Branden."

  "Can we stop the forces arrayed against us, Gervais?"

  "Sure to say, we are outnumbered," Gervais answers. "Not too greatly. For the Lady of the Grail, we will fight valiantly."

  "Gerald," Rachel says, "you will stay and command the castle."

  "Lady—" Gerald rises. "It is true I am not a dubbed knight, only a simple troubadour. But I can ride and am not too clumsy with a sword. I will take the field."

  Rachel feels a pang of dread, ignores it and nods. "Denis, I have no skill for battle strategy. I rely on you to serve as my warmaster."

  "I will lead the men with my best cunning."

  "No," Rachel counters. "You will guide the men—but I will lead the way to this battle."

  Protests crowd the chamber, until Rachel holds up both her hands.

  "I will bear the standard of the Swan into battle," she announces with steady resolve. At last, it has come clear to her—she has grasped the significance of the blood in the Grail. It is the blood of the sacrifice, the sacrifice she refused to accept when her father slew his family and himself.

  With the certainty of the eleven years she has spent looking away, she must never look away again. "I will not hide behind these walls while my men fight for me. When my fate is decided, I will be there to meet it."

  "Lady," Gianni objects. "A battle is not a tourney. It is savage chaos! If you are there, you will have to be protected, and that will only distract the soldiers from fighting."

  "I disagree," Gervais says. "Is she not the Lady of the Grail? With her on the field, the men will fight harder."

  "But the enemy will have a prominent target to attack," Harold retorts.

  Rachel interrupts the ensuing debate: "We've no time to argue. Denis, you are in command. Take us into battle. If the rabbi is right and we are God’s hands, then there is much work to be done."

  -/

  Rachel seeks Thomas outside the armory of the donjon, where the knights and sergeants gird themselves and their steeds for battle. He wears a chain-mail vest and cowl like the others and busily checks his horse’s saddlestraps when she summons him.

  "Beloved, you were my strength in the council room," she thanks him after he steps away from his squire. "I had forgotten the peace I'd found with you—until you reminded me. There is no going back now."

  For a moment, Thomas stares unbelieving at her black riding pants and armor. Over her red gambeson, a vest thickly padded with felted cotton, she wears a tunic of chain mail. Her hair has been tied back and piled atop her head so it will not tangle in the mail. "The battle will be too dangerous," he warns. "You should stay."

  "It was you who made this risk necessary, Thomas," she says with cold simplicity, "when you kept me from telling the truth."

  "The truth?" Thomas shakes his head and takes her chin in his hand to focus deep into her eyes. "What is the truth, Rachel? That you are a Jew? Then Christ is a Jew—and hundreds of martyrs and Crusaders have died for a Jew—then all of Christendom worships a Jew. No. Christ is not a Jew. Jesus was—but not Christ. He wept blood that the Cup would pass from him. But the Cup did not pass. And so you are not a Jew, either. You have drunk from the same Cup—you have drunk from the Grail. You are not my grandmoth
er—but you are the baroness. The truth is what we make of it."

  Rachel's gaze deepens, and she feels angry. There is a truth—one truth, neither concealed nor separate. She knows this from long years of attentive watchfulness. The truth gives her no choice: She must act, fulfilling the destiny that began when she looked away from her dead family all those years ago. She will not look away again. She will face the truth today on the battlefield. No matter how bitter, she will, at last, be herself.

  She takes Thomas' hand. "Remember, you were my strength last night—and in the council room—and even now." Her maids step through the bustle of varlets distributing weapons and announce that her horse waits. She holds them off with a nod. "But you are wrong about me, Thomas. You are my strength—because you are wrong."

  She walks off surrounded by her anxious maids, and he watches her disappear in the crowd of dazzling iron.

  -/

  Clare and Ummu stand at the barbican as the Lady of the Grail leads her army out of the castle. Ta-Toh perches atop the wall of sharpened poles, waving and squawking in imitation of the crowd of villeins who line the toll bridge road. Clutching Ummu’s hand for comfort, Clare watches her Gerald ride to war. "It is for the best, is it not, Ummu?" she asks, wiping away tears.

  "The best often requires the worst," he answers, his gaze on Madelon, who stands opposite him across the road. Her mother Hellene and brother Hugues are conspicuously absent among the castle well-wishers. The dwarf knows she stands there only to wave farewell to Gianni.

  When the Italian knight rides by on his Arabian stallion, Ummu lifts his hand in a gesture of bravura. Gianni winks a bruised eye at him, and he turns a fixed, lingering gaze on Madelon. The dwarf waves emptily and shrugs. "Worst of all is to be bested."

  -/

  "This will be a rout," Guy states, convinced. He rides between Roger Billancourt and Branden Neufmarche, dressed in chain mail bodysuit with breastplate and greaves and his helmet on his pommel so that his view of the terrain remains unhindered.

  "How can you be so damned sure?" Branden asks sourly. In full armor, he huffs, exhausted from the chafing, sweltering ride. "What I've been hearing from our men since we camped last night is how remarkable this Lady of the Grail is. They say she can cast befuddling spells—as she did on her grandson Thomas. And confounding Erec the Bold at the tourney. They also say the Devil's fire leaps from hell at her command, and that's how she burned Dic Long Knife’s men."

  "All rot!" Guy casts him a baleful frown. "And you believe such fairy tales, Branden?"

  Branden disavows it with a humorless laugh. "Not I. But Maître Pornic says she is a Jew, and everyone knows they practice necromancy, learned from the Egyptians. All the men have heard of the temple she built on Merlin’s Knoll and how she burned the old rabbi there. With witchcraft like that, how can you be so sure we'll rout her forces?"

  "Then we shouldn't have left Maître Pornic back at your castle, Branden," Guy chaffs. "His blessings could have countered her spells."

  "We'll win, because we've more men and horses," Roger answers sternly. He has already donned his bascinet helmet, body-mail and breastplate, and with a mace dangling from one arm and a battle ax hung from his saddle, he is prepared for an ambush. Apprehensive about the Pretender's reputation as a miracle worker, he suspects an ensnaring attack by a cadre of fanatics.

  To her own people, she is blessed by the Grail and to her enemies, she is a witch, he marvels, grateful to avoid a siege, for that would have left too much time for her renown to work on the troops. This determines him to commit all his forces. Their first engagement must be decisive to break her mystique.

  "Our scouts report that the Pretender awaits us in the meadow beyond Devil's Foot ridge. Clearly she expects we will post defenders atop the ridge and surge through the cleft in that mound."

  "That would be to our advantage," Branden states. "Men atop the hillocks on either side will protect our flanks. And with our archers on the ridge, we can keep her forces far enough back to bring through our full corps."

  "So she reasons," Roger says. "Or rather, so thinks Denis Hezetre."

  "It smells of Denis," Guy agrees. "He is thinking like an archer, hoping to pelt us with arrows as we come through the cleft, weakening our numbers."

  "We will divide into three," Roger decides. "Branden, you and I will lead first strikes from either side of the Devil's Foot. That will soften their flanks and draw off their center. Then, Guy will charge through the cleft and shatter them."

  "I will take the central charge," Branden corrects and gestures to the column of horsemen, sumpter mules, and wagons behind them. "These are my men. I will lead them. The two of you will conduct the forays."

  Guy bridles at Neufmarche’s imperious tone, but a sharp glance from Roger stays his retort.

  "So be it," Roger concurs. "Your timing is vital. You must not strike until the center is weakened—and then you must not hesitate."

  "Send William on the foray," Guy suggests. "I will stay with Branden."

  "Pish!" Neufmarche stiffens. "I'll not have you directing me in front of my men, Lanfranc. Do as the warmaster says."

  "If you blunder, toad, I'll come for your head," Guy rasps.

  Branden reins his horse to a stop and narrows a threatening gaze at Guy. "At my command, these men will turn. Unless you apologize, you and your handful of knights and sergeants can carry the battle on your own."

  Guy rears up in his saddle. Before he can speak, Roger cuts his horse between them. "Come away, the two of you," he commands and waves them off the main body of soldiers. He grabs the bridle of Guy's horse, turns him around, and leads the reluctant barons to an alder copse out of earshot of the men. "Stop this bickering at once!" He scowls at Neufmarche. "Do you think your men will gladly turn back now, with victory so near? You will find yourself with a very unhappy army, Branden."

  He turns his dudgeon on Guy: "And you— Where do you find the gall to threaten our one ally?" His head bobs angrily. "Apologize at once and let us get on with this battle. By midafternoon you'll have your castle back and Branden and his men will have their lands. Let's fix on that!"

  Guy mumbles an apology, and trots off through the copse and back to the trail, far enough ahead of the column to ride alone. Perplexed by his feelings, he senses that his anger at Neufmarche masks something like fear.

  Yet, he knows he is not afraid. He has been carried on the rushing current of battles before, where everything slides toward the brink of death and neither prowess nor courage guarantee anything—where a stray missile, a false step and flesh becomes carrion.

  A hard sigh passes through him. He is not afraid to die. Still, foreboding wilts the usual eagerness he feels before combat. Doubts crowd him. What if Neufmarche balks? What if he meets Denis on the field? Will he want victory enough to strike his friend?

  These thoughts leave a sour taste in his mouth, and he spits. The truth is, I am alone. Since father died, I have been alone.

  The broadening clarity of this fact encompasses the cruel wound he received in Eire that sheared all future lineage from him. A detached, lonely feeling pervades him with the conviction that he has been cut to the warrior's most lethal shape—a man with nothing more to lose. Yes, he will kill anyone who gets in his way.

  -/

  "Da, perhaps we should speak with him," Thierry says, leaning forward in his saddle to see past Neufmarche and Roger to where Guy rides alone.

  William Morcar vetoes that suggestion with a chop of his hand. "He's cut himself away from the warmaster. He wants to be alone."

  "Is that his usual way before battle?"

  William looks askance at his son, and perceive for the first time since they left the castle how callow he is. This will be his first taste of war, he reminds himself and admits the concern that rises in him. He determines to keep a close watch on his boy even if that should jeopardize his own life.

  Such a thought brings to the fore all the love he has fostered for his first-born—a lov
e that has moved his hand to deceit and murder. All redeemed by love, he swears to himself.

  "Each must prepare for what is to come in his own way," William answers. "Each battle is different and yet the same. I regret that your first real combat must be against those whom you know."

  "That will not stay my hand, Da."

  William nods grimly. "Nor should it. When you've seen enough warfare, you will understand—we are all the same, all on one battlefield, and whom you are fighting does not matter. Strangers or friends, death makes us equals."

  -/

  From horseback, Rachel plants the pole of her banner firmly in the hummock, and the Swan ensign flutters in the cool wind off the mountains.

  Denis canters to her side from his brief lope into the meadow. "This is the best place for you to stand, my lady. The rise gives you a commanding view of the field. And when the enemy sees your banner and you beside it, they will come right for you. That will focus their attack and enable us to deploy our archers and lancers with some anticipation. Also, the low outcrops ahead will afford you some small protection."

  Rachel surveys the landscape, once again struck by the beauty of the quilted hills embroidered with thickets and groves—and the vales between them dark green with wildwoods. Ahead, at the far end of the meadow rises the Devil’s Foot, a thistly mound between the forested hills that looks as though cleaved in half by a giant’s ax. A gush of colors mottles the field with flowers—bluebells, daffodils, pansies, and fireweed.

  "One last time, won't you reconsider returning to the keep?" Denis asks.

  Rachel shakes her head and looks to the mob of villeins gathered at the skirt of the woods behind her hummock. They have followed her from the village armed with staves, sickles, and scythes, chanting "Valaise! Valaise! Lady of the Grail!"

  "They are no real good to us," Denis says, following her gaze. "They expect a miracle from you. But the real miracle will come from those men." He points to the sergeants in their dented helmets and chain mail at the meadow’s edge, some astride battle-ready horses, others on foot, leaning on their lances. "They will carry the day—if our knights lead them well."