Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  And even though her brain feels battered and her bones ache from the slaughter that yawed around her moments ago, her blood brightens to recognize the pelt-garbed, bearded warriors of Erec the Bold.

  Thierry rides headlong at the front of Neufmarche’s column. At the sight of the Welsh charging straight downhill ahead and to the sides, he jams his heels hard into his steed's sides. Fulfilling his first battle, he determines to win the respect of his godfather and the men, proving himself worthy of his knighthood.

  The standard bearers flanking him and William fall away, flaring out to the sides to protect the Raven’s head banners from the screaming barbarians. William, too, balks at the sight of the tribesmen swarming out of the woods, and he shouts at his son: "Pull up! Defend the standard!"

  Thierry has his heart set on fighting alongside Guy and the legendary Roger Billancourt, and he aims at full pelt for the thick of the battle. His mount leaps fallen bodies of men and horses and strikes aside a varlet with an upraised ax. The impact swerves the warhorse and sends it plunging into the struggling crowd.

  A pikeman thrusts a lance at Thierry, and he deftly strikes the sharpened pole aside with his sword and tramples his attacker. Clutching the reins with one hand, sword whistling through the air and crunching against metal and bone, he bounds among the enemy. The air shakes with howls and threats. Arrows blur past his head, and one thuds into the saddle beside his thigh. The horse shrieks, lunges furiously, and, for an instant, Thierry overbalances and nearly topples into the cursing mob. His flailing sword arm rights him, and he slashes at the blades snicking at his chain mail.

  Another leap, another vicious chop of his sword, and he is within sight of Guy and Roger. He rears up proudly, weapon lifted high—and then, the whooping Welshmen swarm around him. A wrenching pain cracks his shoulder as an ax slams against his sword arm. He sways backward, and gruff hands seize him from behind.

  Snarling, bearded faces thrust close, and he tries to strike at them with his free hand. His arm snags, and his helmet and breastplate clang as swords batter him, striving to pierce beneath the armor.

  One blade wedges under his helmet, and he bucks and kicks, desperate to squirm free. A wild scream hurtles through him; and then the blade slides over the collar of his mail and stoppers his throat with steel.

  Guy bellows "No!" at the sight of his godson heaved to the ground. The gap under his helmet spurts bright arterial blood. Yelling his rage and anguish, he swings his battle ax blindly and heaves his destrier toward the exultant barbarians.

  They teem everywhere, darting into the brawl without armor or even helmets, heaving themselves fearlessly at his hacking battle ax. Cursing maniacally, he flails at them, and they bark laughter and swipe with their swords. Two go down under his chopping blade. He whirls to face their comrades on the other side of him, and a stab of agony pierces the back of his neck.

  Reflexively, his left hand shoots up and feels the arrow jammed deep into his shoulder at the base of his neck. All his strength curdles into pain, and as he slides from his horse, he glimpses the barbarian who has shot him. The Welshman raises his crossbow over his head triumphantly, his face ghastly with gloating.

  -/

  When Branden Neufmarche sees Guy fall, he signals for retreat, and trumpets sound the wailful note that sends the Norman attackers flying back into the cleft of the Devil's Foot.

  Roger Billancourt yells at them: "Fight, you cowards! Fight!"

  The hoof-chewed meadow swiftly empties but for the dead, the wounded, a few straggling defenders, and the boisterous Welsh. They crisscross the field swaggering their weapons and hooting jubilantly: William Morcar kneels over his dead son, and Guy Lanfranc lies inertly beside his champing destrier.

  One lone horseman remains of the defenders, and Roger trains his fury on him. Throwing down his morning-star, he unsheathes his sword, kicks his heels to the flanks of his mount, and hurtles forward with a demented battle cry.

  Thomas has removed his helmet, and when he hears the horrible war shout, he heaves a frightened look over his shoulder. With time only to cast the helmet aside, he draws his sword before Roger crashes into him. Thomas' sword swings wide, and Roger’s blade cuts across his face.

  Spraying blood, Thomas reels back stunned, then lurches forward and clasps the neck of his horse. Pain jerks through him. Blood films over his eyes, stinging him blind, and he gasps and chokes on the hot fluid, thinking he is dying.

  Sight blinks back into his smarting eyes, air wheezes into his lungs, and the hurt of his face sears hotter. Fear sharpens his wits, and he realizes that his cheek has been flayed open—he can feel the flap of it against his neck—but he lives.

  Still astride his horse, sword in his grip, he spits blood and looks up to meet Roger pulling around, curving back toward him, sword shining. With an angry kick to his horse, he leaps forward. Pain jags brighter with the jolting gallop, inspiring hateful defiance in him.

  Swords clash as the horses charge past each other. Both riders stagger and pull their steeds around.

  Roger moves faster, and his experience anticipates Thomas' arcing blow, so that he pulls to the side just enough to miss the blow, yet near enough to slash upward. Thomas twists and takes the hit against his back. The metal plate clanks, and the force drives him forward.

  With expert precision, Roger slides his sword into the gap between the wounded man's arm and breastplate. Chain mail blunts the stabbing blow. Even so, its force jars enough to knock the sword from Thomas' hand.

  Expecting Thomas to pull away, Roger presses closer to block his escape. But Thomas, ignorant of fighting strategy, sits upright, dizzy with hurt, cringing in anticipation of another blow. As Roger slides by, Thomas reacts with irate swiftness and grabs him by the back of his helmet. The warmaster, taken off guard, keels backward, and the two collapse to the ground.

  Thomas lands on top. Roger stares up into the gashed open cheek, faces the skull's gritted teeth, and punches with his sword hilt. The blow throws Thomas to the side and splats blood into Roger's eyes.

  Momentarily blinded, he wipes at his eyes and swings aimlessly, lurching to his knees. Head reeling, Thomas seizes his fallen sword, pulls himself upright, and aims a double-handed blow that strikes the warmaster squarely across the top of his helmet.

  Roger collapses, and the Welsh warriors, who have been watching, cheer. One rushes over to the fallen knight, and sticks a dagger under the helmet.

  Surprised, Thomas finds himself standing. His hands welded to the sword hilt, he stares in mute awe at the carnage around him. The pain has vanished, and his face feels like a mask of wood. His limbs, too, feel empty as wood, as though his soul has been torn from his body.

  A Welsh warrior claps a firm hand to his metal shoulder and declares, "Your courage has won your life!"

  With a dim cry, Thomas falls to his knees and begins to weep before the altar of death.

  -/

  Erec Rhiwlas spurs his horse to the top of the hummock where Rachel sits on her red palfrey staring with regnant calm at the slaughter. "Your knights fought valiantly," he says.

  She nods. A tear tracks down her cheek. All words voided in her, only fearfulness matches her astonishment at what she has beheld.

  Erec dips from his saddle and retrieves the fallen banner. He sets it upright in the earth. "Yet flies the Swan—"

  "The Swan flies," she whispers as if to herself, and nods again as understanding comes clear.

  She heaves a sigh, staring at the palpable price of victory: squires, varlets, and the intact survivors hurry the wounded off the field to the physician's tar pot and potions. She looks wearily at Erec. "I thank you. All was lost before you came."

  "I could not let you suffer defeat," he says, his look soft and caring. "Though I cannot have you as my wife, I should rather have you as a friend than Guy as a foe. Howel and the tribe agreed." He smiles disconsolately. "Actually my father is glad you put me aside—and this is his thanks to you."

  Rachel puts a ha
nd on Erec's. "Would that I could have pleased you. I truly admire you, Erec. But the difficulties of my fate are not finished."

  Erec squeezes her hand with understanding. "What will you do now? Your enemies are dead and vanquished—and you are the Servant of Birds."

  "No." She lowers her head and closes her eyes. In the violet light, the Grail appears, lying on its side, drained.

  She faces Erec exhausted yet clear-headed. "The Servant of Birds died on this field today. Her destiny completed itself here. Now I must find Rachel Tibbon where I left her eleven years ago. And this is no place for a Jew. I will return to the land God has given my people."

  "Who will rule in your stead?" Erec asks with some alarm. "No, you must stay."

  Rachel turns away, sees Harold limping past, a hand to his head, eyes staring dazedly. "Come, there are wounded I must attend."

  "My lady—" Harold croaks, gaze sharpening at the sight of her. "Guy is asking for you."

  "He lives?" Erec starts.

  "He is dying," Harold answers. "He is calling for his mother."

  Guy lies on his back, helmet off, head propped on a torn saddle. The bolt that has pierced his shoulder juts from under his neck, and his tunic soaks in the blood that has leaked from the wound. The physician, who bows over him, shakes his head when Rachel approaches, and backs away.

  Rachel kneels in the mud beside Guy, startled to see her strong and fervid enemy glassy-eyed and pale. A shiver of fear pricks her, and she checks to assure that he has no weapon in his hands.

  "Mother—" he gasps. The dark lids of his eyes narrow. "You have won."

  A pang of sorrow tightens her chest, and she must remember that this is the same man who willed David's and Dwn's murders. "I did not want to fight you, Guy. You have defeated yourself."

  "It is true," he whispers. Though he can see sunlight blazing on the hillsides, a shadow lies over everything, and the air glints chill as autumn. He remembers feeling this way in Eire trousered in his own blood, when war gelded him. He feels proud that he has been faithful to war since then, not scared into passivity by a loss that would have broken lesser men. He is glad that death has found him in his armor with his enemies dead around him.

  Only one mystery remains to be acknowledged—one unfinished sorrow to be completed—"Mother—" His eyes snap open and stare wildly at Rachel as acceptance gels in him. "You are my mother." He coughs, and blood speckles his face. "Only one woman could have defeated me. You are she. I accept it now."

  He reaches out for her, and she takes his hand. His grip heavy and cold, his eyes play over her face, still wild, seeing her for the first time. "The Grail—it is true. All along I have refused to see. It is true."

  "Yes."

  "There is God."

  "Oh yes, Guy—there is God, and He will not judge you unkindly."

  Guy’s hand flinches, and his desperate stare locks on her eyes. "But I have sinned!"

  She shakes her head. "Life is its own sin," she tells him tenderly. "Living true to yourself, you have redeemed the sin. Fear not. You have served God well."

  His grasp relents. His last breath gargles blood, and darkness widens in his fixed vision.

  -/

  The caskets of Guy Lanfranc, Roger Billancourt, and Thierry Morcar ride out of the castle on one carriage bound for Trinity Abbey. Behind follow William, Hellene, Hugues, and Madelon on horseback.

  Maître Pornic, dispatched by Neufmarche, leads the funeral procession on his white mule over the drawbridge and through the barbican. Slowly, they proceed toward the village where the abbot will bless the sergeants and villeins who fell in battle.

  Harold Almquist stands with Leora and their daughters at the gate to the inner ward. He watches solemnly. The baroness has forbidden all but immediate family to attend the rites of these fallen gentry who have been responsible for the deaths of so many of their own people. The guildsmen and their families stand before their shops, heads bowed in prayer.

  In the garden of the inner ward, the baroness meets with her knights. Denis Hezetre and Gianni Rieti have been borne into the sunlight on litters, giddy with relief that they still live.

  Denis' breastbone has been cracked. The hurt feels to him like the physical anguish of a broken heart—Guy is dead and his undoing a paradox of relief and sorrow that their love failed at the limits of faith.

  Still, he knows joy that the tyranny of anger is finished, the fierce raids and battles done with, the impossible love between them canceled by death and, with it, his vow of continence.

  For Gianni, the arrow that struck him serves as a lasting sign that God will allow him in good faith to leave the priesthood: A fraction either way and it would have punctured his lung and drowned him in blood. "It is a miracle that none of the knights who serve the Lady of the Grail are mortally wounded," Gianni marvels.

  Gerald nods from where he sits on a stone bench, arm in arm with Clare. "That miracle’s name is Erec the Bold. He and his men should be here among us to celebrate this victory."

  "We will have that privilege," Denis says, "after Erec buries his dead."

  "Would that Erec had lived up to his name and been bold enough to come sooner," Ummu complains. "Then my master would not be as we find him."

  "And sufficiently well to draft a letter this morning to the bishop at Talgarth surrendering his rights and duties as canon."

  "Forsaking one master for another," Ummu grumbles.

  Clare frowns benignly at him and wags her finger. "That is not certain yet. Rumors sour the truth, Ummu. You should know better."

  Ta-Toh, squatting in Ummu's lap beside Gianni, eyes Clare’s extended hand and waving finger and leaps onto her arm.

  She shrieks with surprise as the monkey climbs onto her shoulder and busses her cheek! And she reaches up and pats its head. "Has Ta-Toh finally grown to like me?"

  "Nonsense," says Ummu. "He merely wants to hear the rumor for himself."

  "I am to be married," Gianni says.

  "Madelon," Denis surmises and slaps Gianni's good arm. "Welcome to the family."

  "What of William?" Gerald enquires. "Will he consent?"

  "Madelon has consented," Clare says. "That is all that matters in these modern times. Is that not so, Mother?"

  Rachel lifts herself from her reverie. From afar, she has been watching Thomas sitting under the rose trellis and wondering if this is what the baroness had wanted for her grandson.

  His angelic countenance, marred now along the left side of his face, displays a wound from the top of his ear to the corner of his mouth. Its purpled, swollen flesh, laced with black stitches, distorts his appearance so malevolently that he appears dangerous.

  Perhaps, she thinks, this menacing look has appeared now that Ailena's wish has been fulfilled and he has abandoned the study of God for the lessons of men.

  "Forgive me," she speaks, finally rising from her chair beside the potted quince trees. "I am still unsettled from yesterday." She blesses her knights for their bravery and their sacrifices and announces that she would like to speak privately with her grandson.

  Thomas stands, and the pain in his face throbs deeper. Since the physician cleaned and sewed his wound, he has been inflamed with the pulsing hurt of cut flesh and has tried to mute his suffering with wine. Yesterday, he quaffed so much he passed out before dark.

  Rachel links little fingers with him in a show of grandmotherly affection. And they stroll to the far end of the garden, where bushes of rhododendron and an arbor of morning glory seclude them. Once out of sight, she kisses him gently and closely examines his slashed face. "Oh, my Thomas—you suffer."

  "Mine is only the suffering of flesh," he mutters, each word barbing him with fresh pain. He touches the pale line of her jaw, and an upwelling of love gives him the strength to say: "But yours, Rachel, your suffering is of the soul."

  She shakes her head. "No more. The horror I witnessed as a child completed itself yesterday—and I did not look away. I saw it all, Thomas. All the suffering we
can inflict. Christians killing Christians! These men did what was hard. How much easier for them to kill Jews and Saracens." She suppresses a chill. "The hatred of it—the terror of it—that wound has healed in me now."

  He braces himself against the trellis and asks, "Are you numbed to it?"

  "No. I feel it still. As the scar remembers. That is the wonder of horror, that one can feel such despair without being destroyed! All these years, the horror of such violence has been inside me. I have been alone with it, yet afraid to countenance it. In that solitude, the dreamer is no more real than her dreams. If Ailena had not come, I would have lived out my life locked in madness. She gave me someone else to be. And then, I was no longer alone. I was with her. And she with me. Always. I did not have to face the horror alone anymore. Until yesterday. Her destiny—the destiny I had made my own—led me to the horror! And I saw it again! Outside of myself."

  Rachel takes Thomas' hand and searches beneath his wounded face for his understanding.

  "No, I am not numb to it, Thomas. It is not inside me anymore. It is out there. In a world of lunacy, violence, and greed. I see that clearly. Now. We are all alone in this shameful world. Each of us so terribly alone. What I have learned from my suffering is that we must strive for communion. We must reach out of our solitude in compassion. Or else, we are doomed. As was Guy. Or as I was, to live in a desolation of solitude, in a world of phantoms that feed on memories and desires."

  "You have won back your soul," Thomas says, and it comes out in an incoherent murmur. Instead, he squeezes her hand and touches his forehead to hers. What will become of us? he wonders. How long can we hide our love before the others see?

  As though she can hear his thoughts, Rachel answers, "We must reach beyond our solitude, Thomas—but with other people. It can be no other way."

  Frost bites into Thomas' heart, and he pulls back to confront her with his baffled hurt.