Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  Gerald, Gianni, Harold, and Thomas parade before the ranks, stopping here and there to address the troops. Rachel notices that Thomas moves as a favorite among them. His clever victory over Bold Erec in the tourney has won him a reputation among the sergeants, and though he has never wielded a weapon, no one questions his leadership. Eliciting quiet laughter and confidence from them, he processes along the file, checking weapons, answering questions, offering encouragement.

  In fact, he shivers within, terrified, and feels glad for something to do while waiting for the carnage to begin. The crucifix in his pocket offers little solace. His victory over Erec had been no more a miracle than his grandmother’s return from the Holy Land.

  God is remote in His heaven, and men are at the mercy of chance and their wits. Luck and daring spared him then in the lists, and he senses little of either now.

  Denis has already promised to stand by him in battle, to help address his lack of experience. He knows, however, that when the fighting begins, it will be every man for himself.

  He looks to the hummock where Rachel sits atop her red palfrey, and when he notices that she is watching him, he nods.

  Last night's erotic union comes back on him in a shudder of power. She has given him her strength, and he clearly feels his courage multiplying as he stares at her.

  She has told him everything about herself. Knowing all she has suffered to be here—all the instruction she has so flawlessly absorbed from his irascible grandmother and the deadly horror that orphaned her, the tremendous loneliness of losing her grandfather and the desolation that pressed her to confide in him—knowing all that, he marvels at her clear stance, marvels that she can hold any regard for him at all. Her last words to him wring his heart: "You are my strength, because you are wrong."

  Am I totally a fool? he wonders. Am I wrong to have pressed her to this?

  Caught up in the rush of events, he finds the answer he seeks impossibly beyond him. He only knows that he loves this brave, lonely woman, and if he had let her speak the truth, Maître Pornic would have destroyed her as surely as he had smashed the Sacred Visage in the stone.

  So, he has lied—and his lie has opened the way to war. But war is nothing new, only his presence in it is.

  The terrible moment approaches. The wound that will leak his life flies closer. And though he hums with fright inside, his secret sharing with the Lady of the Grail surrounds him with magical calm.

  -/

  Atop the Devil's Foot, men appear, and a shout goes up from the soldiers grouped around the Swan banner.

  "The moment has come, my lady," Denis says, quietly. "It is time for you to bless the troops, and I will deploy them."

  Rachel feels light-headed and incompetent as she glances down at the crowd of men watching her—knights, sergeants, squires, varlets and villeins, rough-faced men and ruddy-cheeked youths, all looking at her with mixed expressions of adoration and curiosity, waiting for her to speak, to justify the misery they are about to inflict and endure. As in some unfathomable dream, she drifts above them astride her horse.

  Thomas' face sharpens out of the cloud of faces, and his caring look stills her doubts. She has everything to tell this man and his people, everything she has won from the grief their kind have inflicted on her. She knows she must choose her words carefully. There is no time, yet this is all the time there is, the last minutes of many of their lives, and they deserve to hear something of the truth of this world.

  "I have been to Jerusalem," she begins slowly, her voice quavery. "I have stood by the dragon’s well, by the dung gate, by the king's pool under the tower of flies. Everything there has been built by the sword. Though the Savior trod those very streets, I tell you, everything there has been built by the sword."

  Her voice rises: "People—it is no different there than here! Every valley is the valley of tears. Every river the river of time. And we are all the children of Eve—and must live with the curse God has laid on her and all her children. Everything that is built is built with the sword! There is no peace in this world. That is God's curse on Eve and her man. So long as we live in the light, in the light of the sun and the moon and the stars, we live in the darkness of God's curse, where everything must be built with the sword."

  She looks closely into their faces and identifies the anguish she herself feels. "Do not be fooled by your fears and your doubts, men. When we die, we leave behind God's curse, we leave behind the river of time and the valley of tears, and we enter the darkness to find the light."

  Her arms open to embrace all of her soldiers, who are watching her raptly. "And we will find that light. I promise you, there is a light too bright for mortal vision that appears to us in this world as darkness—and in that light within the darkness we are in God.”

  Her shoulders sag, and she sits back heavily, head lowered. The sun touches the back of her neck, and she thanks her Creator. For the first time since the horror, she prays thankfully, grateful that He has sent her words worthy of the suffering to come.

  Silence swells across the meadow laced with bird songs and the chuffing of horses. Then, as she raises her face, the men lift their weapons and bellow: "Valaise!"

  Rachel's knuckles glow white where she clutches the pommel of her horse. Diffidently, she watches the soldiers atop the Devil’s Foot position themselves close to the edge, and she discerns the tiny shapes of their bows. The appearance of Neufmarche's archers on the ridge comes just as Denis has predicted, and she looks now for the first signs of the expected charge through the cleft of the cloven mound.

  A swell of wind flurries the banner beside her and carries the chirrups of scolding birds, the honey-balm fragrance of the blossoming meadow, and the distant squabble of the river. In the religious hush, she surveys her troops from atop her grazing horse.

  A dozen bowmen kneel in midfield, butterflies lazing among them. Footmen back them up with their lances, a human wall for the archers to fall behind.

  Chittering swallows dip and glide among the horsemen, whom Denis has positioned at either end of the wall of foot soldiers—and, behind them, waiting for the expected charge to crash into the bowmen's arrows and slow down to hand combat against the foe's lancers the squires and varlets wait, armed with swords and axes. At the van of the deployment, the villeins mill anxiously, some muttering prayers, a few joking among themselves as they gaze hard at the Devil's Foot, eager to see the enemy.

  The knights, preoccupied with their own fears and expectations, sit unmoving on their steeds. Inside their helmets and chain mail, they seem nearly indistinguishable to Rachel: Denis alone carries a bow and wears a bascinet, a helmet without a face-guard, the better to train his arrows.

  Gianni sits astride his white Arabian. Harold has hung a long tress of his wife Leora's red hair from the crest of his helmet. Gerald's head is too large for any available helmet, and he has no armor of his own; so, he wears simply a cowl of mail.

  And Thomas, unfamiliar with his weapons, hefts a sword in one hand and a mace in the other. Over their breastplates, all wear blue tunics patterned with the white emblem of the spread-winged Swan.

  Rachel glances over her shoulder to where the castle physician has drafted several villeins to build small fires and set kettles of water boiling. Into the kettles, the physician drops tufts of herbs and felicitous animal parts: dogteeth, catpaws, toad livers. In the flames themselves, the tips of iron rods glow dull red, ready to sear closed severed blood vessels. And downwind, a pot of tar bubbles and fumes acridly, waiting for the wounds to come, the hacked and gouged gaps of flesh that it will fill with its black mercy.

  -/

  A plume of dust rises from the cleft in the Devil's Foot, and a shout goes up among the men. Lances rattle and arrows nock into place. Several startled ponies, dragging cane rakes behind them to stir up dust, appear in the throat of the defile, and the soldiers stare at them confusedly before war cries from right and left split their attention.

  Rounding the flanks of the Devil's F
oot, two groups of charging horsemen explode into view carrying green banners stained black with the Griffin. Startled shouts from the defenders mix with loud curses as they scramble to reform, and Denis' yelled orders disappear.

  Before the archers can split their line and position themselves to form fronts along their sides, the enemy descend upon them, gouging with lances and slashing with whirling battle axes. The bowmen scatter and fire wildly into the pincering attack.

  Rachel's horse stamps skittishly at the uproar of whooping assailants and screaming wounded. With trembling hands, she steadies the animal and fights the overwhelming impulse to look away. She forces herself to behold the devastating assault.

  Her men scatter into small fighting groups set upon by horsemen fiercely hacking at them with axes and swords. Neufmarche's footmen charge into the meadow, yelling and waving dagger-tipped pikes.

  "Valaise!" the villeins shout and rush forward. In moments, the din and confusion swallow them.

  Despite the shock of the unexpected flank attacks, the defenders do not relent. They scatter and continue to fight. Rachel's whole body clenches to behold spears thrust through bodies of horsemen, skulls smashed and brains scattered like clods of earth under swipes of battle axes, horses' throats hacked open, their great bodies collapsing and spilling their riders into the knives of the foot soldiers.

  Clamping her jaw so tightly her neck muscles ache, Rachel makes herself watch the gruesome mêlée. Ogreish cries of men and horses pummel her; yet, she sits firm, staring hard at sword strokes spilling entrails in shrieks of horror and men plastered with blood hacking pathways of lopped limbs in a wallow of thrashing bodies. The noise is all the noise her head can hold—and soon becomes a cacophonous deafness of screams.

  -/

  Guy presses the attack toward the hummock where he sees the Pretender on her horse beside the Swan ensign. He wants to reach her, to see the look on her face as he strikes a death blow to her mount and sends her sprawling to the ground in defeat.

  First, he must cut away these benighted fanatics, like so much gangrenous flesh around the cancer. His battle ax jars against metal and bone, and a blow from his mace frees it so he can swing another deadly arc.

  An arrow slams into his chest and lodges firmly in his breastplate. With the mace he knocks it off and rears his horse on its hind legs to fend a rush of varlets with swords. Across the bristling crowd of lances, pikes, and flourishing blades, he spots Roger. The warmaster twirls his steed rapidly in a tight circle flailing a morning star, a mace with a spiked ball on a chain, cracking skulls in a crowd of villeins.

  Muscles already aching from the strenuous wielding of ax, Guy lets his mace dangle by its wrist-strap, seizes his reins, and charges to the outside of the meshed warriors. He hopes to dash swiftly around the muddle and attain the hummock where the Pretender waits. As he breaks free, a knight in blue tunic and Swan insignia charges him, sword raised high.

  Guy has a moment to note his opponent: his brother-in-law Gerald. He bolts forward and cuts sharply away, swinging mightily behind him with the flat of his battle ax.

  Gerald’s sword gashes through the empty space where Guy should have been. The hard blow that strikes his back flings him face forward and topples him to the ground. He manages to roll to his back in time to confront soldiers scurrying toward him with daggers bared. He strives desperately to get up and gapes, too stunned to move.

  Horse hooves stamp the earth beside his head, and he peers up into Guy's furious leer. "You're the key that will make my sister open the castle gate!" Guy shouts. "Don't kill him," he orders the soldiers.

  As they drag Gerald away, Guy wheels about, dodges a thrusting spear, and bolts forward to cleave the skull of the pikeman. The battle surges around him again, driven onward by raging howls and anguished cries.

  Harold, exhausted with fury, wants to ride clear of the battle. He chops with his sword at the angry faces cursing him and pulls hard on the reins to steer his beast away from the crush and clamor of the fighting. The animal, spooked by the death-struggles on all sides, carries him deeper into the fray.

  The horse shudders violently beneath him, and he eyes a soldier stabbing at the destrier’s throat. The steed drops to its knees, and Harold faces the crimson blade of the horse-killer. He strikes at the enraged face behind the blade, and the man's nose vanishes. The gaping hole gushes blood.

  Harold lurches off his fallen mount, trips, and sits down. Wailing and grunting surround him. Through his visor, he sees too little—the noseless soldier clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers, chain-mailed legs jerking in and out of view, his horse lying before him, watching him with its large, gentle eye wide with fright.

  Using his sword as a prop, Harold lifts himself and glimpses another horse rearing down on him. Roger Billancourt’s blood-speckled face looms closer, grimacing, showing brown teeth and an insane stare. He holds a club with a blur at the end of it. The club swings close, and, with a searing flash, pain knocks him blind.

  Denis chooses his targets carefully. The wound he received from Dic Long Knife's men aches with each shot. Retreating to the fringe of the meshing armies, he directs his arrows at the most aggressive of the enemy. Neufmarche's horsemen charge for him, and he manages to elude them by prancing his steed in and out of the conflict.

  Time and again, he sights a warrior of maniac strength and lets fly his shaft. Sometimes, he misses as his horse jolts under him, but more often he drops his target. Poised in his concentration, he sights a raging horseman plunging among the foot soldiers with a scything battle ax, and he trains an arrow on him before realizing that this is Guy.

  The arrow whistles toward the knight and hurtles over his shoulder. Relief fills Denis even as he wonders if he has missed on purpose. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spots two lance-men on horseback bearing down on him, and he spurs his steed into the thick of the battle. From there, surrounded by his own warriors, he pulls around, swiftly aims, and fires.

  One of the lancers flies backward off his horse, clutching at the arrow wedged between his helmet and breastplate. The other peels off.

  A shrill cry turns Denis around to witness the men behind him lying broken on the ground and Guy trampling over them, his battle ax brilliant with blood. Denis slings his bow over his pommel and draws his sword.

  "Stand down," Guy commands, lifting his visor and grinning darkly at his old friend. "I'll take you prisoner."

  "You stand down!" Denis shouts. "Before God and the right ruler of this land!"

  Guy’s grin brittles. "Fie on you, the bitch you serve, and God!" Slamming his visor down, he charges.

  Denis veers too late. The battle ax smites him in the chest, rending the metal plate, snapping the mail, and cutting into his flesh with raucous pain. The sword flies from his hand, and he falls from his horse into engulfing darkness.

  -/

  Gianni and Thomas fight back to back. Their horses jostle the fallen bodies. At the start of the fighting, Thomas became separated from Denis, and panic had gripped him. Now, as he hacks at the enemy, he marvels at how easy killing is—bones snapping under the blow of his heavy sword like so much wood, blood sloshing, screams breaking against other screams like the squeals of packed animals.

  Gianni cries out. A crossbow bolt has slammed under his upraised sword arm, and he sags forward and slowly slides from his stallion. Soldiers grab for him and thrust daggers under his breastplate, trying to snap the chain mail and pierce him vitally.

  With a brutal cry, Thomas hurls his horse about and beats at the soldiers with his sword. They fall back, and he grabs Gianni and tries to haul him upright. But he is far too heavy.

  The enemy surge closer, spears lowered. Thomas slides his horse behind the white stallion, and the Arabian rears up and takes the blows of the spears. Quickly, Thomas charges around the wounded animal and hews at the spearmen, dropping three and driving the others off.

  Gervais appears out of the tumult on horseback with four moun
ted sergeants, and they surround Gianni. A squire removes the canon's helmet, and as soon as the sergeants ascertain that he lives, they hurtle back into the riot.

  Thomas searches about for imminent danger, and his blood thickens at the sight of horsemen galloping toward them from the cleft in the Devil’s Foot. The red banners flapping from the grips of the lead knights bear the Raven's head insignia of Neufmarche. At the sight of them, cheers resound from the enemy and groans from the defenders. Abruptly, Thomas' trial of courage and strength has become senseless. The fight is lost.

  -/

  Rachel feels her teeth ringing, bones aching, blood shivering in her veins. Her eyes seem like tiny holes gouged into deadened flesh by the terrible force of what she witnesses. The flowery meadow has churned to mud, and the bodies of men and horses lie in a monstrous sprawl. The wounded weep and yowl, while overhead clouds drift airily by in the ordinary blue.

  Gigantic relief opens in her at the sight of Neufmarche spearing toward the battle. Most of the fighting abates before these reinforcements, and she discovers that only one of her five knights remains on horseback. She has not looked away. She has seen it all. And though her body feels beaten, silence abides inside her. No wicked voices haunt her. What she has seen has happened, and the depth of its happening has absorbed all the screams and voices. Now, only the thunder of approaching horsemen resounds—and the weeping of survivors.

  Enough have died.

  She puts her hand on the stave of her banner, yanks it out of the earth, and drops it to the ground.

  As if on signal, an enormous shout bounds from the forested hills. She looks left and right, and her eyes wince, not believing what they see—the spectacle of horsemen dashing out of the woods on all sides, swords raised high, battle cries their only banners.