Tale of Birle

by Cynthia Voigt

  “She might be. She can be,” Torson said.

  “I can tell you this: Birle’s no wife—nor strumpet. I’m a patient man.” Orien laughed, and pulled at his beard with his hand. “She’s but a girl, still. Let the peaches ripen, before you take them from the branch: That’s the advice my grandfather gave me.”

  “Your grandfather the Earl?” Torson played a game of words.

  “If you’d prefer him so, of course he will be,” Orien answered.

  “You’d no father, then?”

  “Ah, my father. Now he was a great peach-picker. My grandfather saved his breath where my father was concerned.” They all three laughed at this. In its sound and meaning, Orien’s laughter seemed no different from the others’.

  Fear rose in Birle, like the tide rising silently on rocks. She looked from Orien’s strangely unfamiliar face to the faces of the two men, to the boy watching from his corner, to the monster’s bewildered face.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself, Birle?” Torson asked her.

  “I serve him,” she answered, with as much boldness as her fear would allow her.

  Ker leaned toward her. She could back no farther away than she was, on the small platform. Orien stood away, and she was alone.

  “Cleaned and combed, she might not be bad,” Ker said. “You always tell me, Brother, that only blood can be relied on, when I’ve said we need wives to answer our needs and care for us. Did you never think that we might take one wife, between us?”

  Birle’s body couldn’t move, but her spirit shrank within her. She could go over the side, she thought, and if she couldn’t swim she could drown. Ker’s hand moved along the rough boards toward her.

  “I take it that a woman isn’t worth much, even at best,” Orien’s voice asked. Birle stared at the thick fingers of the hand. “How much would a girl fetch?” he asked, as if the answer didn’t matter much to him.

  “More than a bold lad would,” Torson said. “A mettlesome hawk is a trouble and danger, but a plump little robin—”

  “Plump?” There was laughter in Orien’s voice.

  The hand lifted and came close to her face. Birle’s hands clutched at the neck of her cloak. The hand, with its fingers, wrapped itself around her neck and the fingers slid down, under her cloak and shirt. Birle stared at his face; he was watching his own hand. His eyes—there was the same expression she had seen in Muir’s, which she had named longing then, ignorant as she was. It was hunger, not longing, and she knew that Muir was little different from this man. She was ever a fool, she thought; she had ever been a fool.

  “Stop paddling at her neck!” Torson spoke roughly.

  Ker looked at his brother, and smiled. Birle bit her teeth into her lip to keep from crying out. While he smiled at his brother, Ker’s hand stroked down her neck again, and again. Orien stood helpless—angry.

  With a howl that turned all of them to him, the monster rose half up from his seat. The rope at his neck jerked him to a stop, but he raised his manacled hands behind his head and pulled. The cleat that held his tether ripped out of the wood, and Yul lunged forward. He had his hands over Ker’s head and was pulling back with the chain, choking Ker, before any of the others could move.

  What Orien might have done, Birle didn’t know. Torson was the one who moved. He grabbed the rope hanging at Yul’s back, and pulled down on it with his whole weight.

  For a minute it was a comedy of choking—Ker pulling at the chain that cut off his breathing, the giant unmoved by the rope that cut into his thick neck. Then the giant let Ker drop onto the deck, where he lay crumpled and coughing. “Back!” Torson pulled on the rope. “Witch’s spawn! Down!”

  Yul turned around to look at him. Torson took the end of the rope, where the wooden cleat hung, and whipped Yul around the face.

  “You’ll blind him!” Birle cried.

  “He’ll have to sit then. Sit—you—thing—you—sit.”

  Yul sat down heavily, clumsily, his chained hands still protecting his face.

  “He could’ve killed me.” Ker rubbed his throat.

  Torson had no sympathy for his brother. Sweat ran down his red face and into his beard. “Take this rope and tie it around the mast. I should have let him finish you off, if you’re not going to do what I tell you. When will you learn to let me give the orders?”

  “Hoy, Brother.” Ker got up slowly and took the rope, to loop it around the mast and knot it.

  “I give the orders, and you obey them.”

  “Yes, Brother,” Ker said, sullen.

  “I make the decisions.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “You go along with them.”

  “I said yes!” Ker exploded.

  “Just so you remember.” The brothers glared at each other. “They said he was tame,” Torson finally said. “They said he was a mouse.”

  “If he’s the mouse, I’d hate to be the cat,” Ker said. Then the brothers laughed together, slapping each other on the back, once again pleased with themselves.

  Birle felt Orien slip down to sit beside her again, but she couldn’t look at him. She formed thank you with her lips, soundlessly. Yul didn’t understand, then he mimed bringing food to his mouth and smiled at her. Birle smiled back, as much as she was able, and imitated his gesture. His smile stayed on his face, as if it had been forgotten there.

  Neither Birle nor Orien protested when their hands were bound by Torson, who said he wasn’t going to let Ker near her so the little robin could sleep sound in her nest. The sparrow, Torson said, seemed to have had most of his feathers plucked, and if he didn’t want to lose the rest he’d do as he was told. As night deepened, Birle sat silent against the curved wooden sides of the ship. For all that there were five others on this ship, she was alone. Her thoughts were her only companions, and they were not good company to her.

  The waning moon looked down upon the ship. Four dark, shapeless sleepers lay before her, and the black mast rose up as if it were driven into the moon’s face.

  Orien spoke softly beside her. “I was trying—”

  “I know.” She had thought about his talk of a woman’s value and understood what he had hoped to gain by it. She understood that he hadn’t betrayed her. “When you asked about ransom, Orien, and then saw that they wouldn’t believe you—I almost believed you were such a man, such a—you seemed at home with those two, the same kind of man they are.”

  “And so I was. I can put on the cloak of the world I find myself in, however I happen to find myself in it. I can sing any man’s tune, and you’d believe me. That’s my gift.” Birle knew this wasn’t a gift he honored.

  “So you might, in that fashion, make your way safely among strangers, whatever your station there.”

  “I was a man like my grandfather, in his company; I was an Earl with the Earl. I was a soldier when I trained among the soldiers. A courtier with the ladies, a student with the priests—I think sometimes I am nothing of myself.”

  “And you might keep yourself safe that way,” she said, stubbornly making her hope clear to him. “Why should we both be lost, when you at least might win through?”

  They sat there with the moonlight falling upon them, and the ship rocking gently under them. Her ankles were chained, her hands were bound, and each future she imagined for herself was more cruel than the one before. But if Orien could be kept safe—

  “So you do know what they mean to do with us?” Orien asked.

  “Yes.” They were to be sold. They were to be parted. “What was her name?” Birle asked. “The bride your father took from you, what was her name?”

  “Melisaune,” he said. “Why would you want to know that? Birle, you don’t think that it was because of her—? Only a girl would do that, throw everything over for love. That’s a girl’s reason, not—” He stopped speaking. Birle said nothing.

  “You have been a fool, haven’t you?” he asked.

  He shouldn’t mock her, she thought. She thought to answer yes, and let him
know she thought as little of him as he thought of her. Aye, and then he’d have made her betray herself, along with all the other ill he’d brought her to. “No, my Lord, I have not,” she said, and turned her back to him. Let him understand that however he wished.

  Part Two

  The Philosopher’s Amanuensis

  Chapter 11

  TORSON LED THEM THROUGH AN open gateway. Ker made the end of the line of captives. Captives they were, Birle knew. Their hands were tied tight behind them, and each was roped by the hands to the waist of the one behind. Yul still wore shackles at his ankles, but the three others moved barefooted, their legs unbound.

  It was like a fenced farmyard, the dirt packed smooth, the herded captives like clumps of weeds on barren ground. The owners greeted one another, eyes assessing the competition of the market that day. There were only two women there, besides Birle, neither of them young. Birle drew more attention than she liked, and Torson was congratulated on his luck.

  On the journey, they had fed her as much as she would eat, and given her a bowl of ale at the end of each day, to fatten her. Orien was moved to the oars, beside the boy. Seeing him there, Birle couldn’t stay angry at him. It was three days to this city, and Orien was so worn that all he could do was bend over the oar and sleep, whenever the sail was raised or the ship anchored. They never traveled by night.

  Birle had grown accustomed to the long, empty days, the slowly changing shoreline, and the endless waves passing under the ship. She thought now that she could grow accustomed to anything. She had been accustomed to life at the Inn, with its labors that had seemed hard to her; then to living on the river in Orien’s company; then to the slow death of their stony sanctuary. She thought, standing bound, that she might grow accustomed even to that, even to being on sale, like an animal. Aye, it was terrible how easily she could grow used to things.

  Except, she thought, to Orien. Orien was always like sunrise at the end of darkness, ever new and welcome, ever surprising. At the thought, she turned to look at him.

  Ragged, exhausted, filthy—he didn’t look a Lord. Except for his eyes, she thought, surprising laughter there. “Orien?” she asked, fearful of what he might answer, if his wits had broken under the weight of his fortune.

  “Gladaegal wouldn’t envy me now,” he said.

  Anyone seeing Orien now could only pity him. Birle had fared better on the journey. The first morning, she’d been handed a thick wooden comb and told to work at her hair. She had made it into the long braid that hung down her back. Yul had watched her. Whether he rowed or rested, Yul’s eyes had stared at her. Birle gave him as much of the bread as she could not swallow, at every meal. She even tried to talk with him. Why she tried to do that, she did not know, except for the gratitude she felt to him. Yul was a simple, but not—as their captors thought—without speech. It was just that the words that came out of his misshapen mouth were twisted into sounds difficult to understand. When he spoke his own name it was a grunting “Ull” sound—forced out from between his lips as if it were food he could not swallow. Her name was little different, when he spoke it. “Url,” he would say, to catch her attention.

  She had tried to discover where he was from, and how he’d come to his present situation. “Where is your home?” she’d asked.

  “Um?”

  Birle breathed out the sound: “Huh—huh—”

  “Huh,” Yul echoed.

  “Home,” Birle said.

  “Hum,” Yul repeated, and smiled at her, the monster’s smile that lingered on his face, forgotten. His eyes peered into her face in an effort to understand what she wanted him to understand.

  Torson had answered her question, from the stern of the ship. “He can’t tell you. Some old granny’d raised him—and she died—”

  At the word “granny,” Yul’s big head turned to the stern of the boat. “Grah,” he repeated, as if it were a question, or a lament.

  “It was a fishing village, up north,” Torson said. “A place so dirty, so small—maybe four wretched hovels, and two boats still afloat. They had him tied to a tree, they were terrified of him. They didn’t know where she’d got him, only that she’d brought him in from the woods one day. Somebody must have left him there, to feed the wolves. And wouldn’t you, if you produced something like that? We didn’t have to give them anything for Yul. The boy we paid two copper coins for. Isn’t that right, boy?”

  Weeping was his only answer.

  “Too many children, too many mouths, and I’ll tell you, it looked to me like his father was going to drink up those coins before anybody else could have the good of them. The boy’s not much but he’ll do for the mines. They keep a few boys, for the narrow, deep places underground. Will you like that, boy? With the weight of the earth over you, your candle in darkness. They’ll give you something to weep about. I figure, you’ll be good for maybe two seasons, maybe less—we’ll double our money on that one,” he explained to Birle, as if she’d be glad of it. “The rest of you are pure profit. It’s been a good voyage, hasn’t it, Ker?”

  “It’ll do,” Ker said. “It’ll do fine.”

  Orien slept through all of this, his arms fallen to the deck, his head fallen forward onto his legs. For a minute, Birle watched him, asleep. “What mines?” she asked, although she didn’t want to know.

  “Gold,” Ker said, as if that were a word that filled his mouth better than food.

  “They always need men for the mines,” Torson said. “Nobody lasts too long. Coughing sickness, mostly,” he explained. “Although,” he added, his smile flickering, “some of them, the branding festers and they’re only good for a couple of weeks.” As if he knew her fear he added more. “That’s a crescent, here.” His finger traced down his cheek. “Maybe not quite so long. No one escapes the mines. They’ll want Yul, and pay a good price for him, I’d think a silver coin. They take what no one else will buy, but you don’t need to worry about that, little robin. There’ll be others to want you, long before the captains of the mines come forward.”

  Who those others might be, Birle didn’t care to think. She stood, bound among other bound captives. There were only captives and masters here. Everybody seemed to be waiting.

  When the ringing of bells filled the air, Birle looked up. These were not the bells that hung over wells, to sound alarm for the villages. These were bells that sang out in round, peaceful notes, many of them, not together but at the same time. The notes filled the air like a flock of birds and then, like birds settling into a tree, settled into silence.

  At the silence, several men came into the enclosure. Their eyes told what they were—they looked over the captives like people at the fairs looking over an array of knives, or woolens. Almost all were clean-shaven. They wore short coats, in bright colors, belted at the waist. Their trousers fitted to their legs like skin. Then Birle met a pair of eyes that stared at her and she looked down to the ground, and the hem of her skirt, and the dirt on her toes.

  The enclosure filled with voices, and more people. Birle had never been at such a market, and had no idea what would happen.

  They stood, the four of them, back-to-back—facing out like beleaguered fighters. She had Orien at her back, for the last stand of their long journey. She didn’t have the heart for misery; fear lay so heavy upon her that she couldn’t catch her breath. It would have been easier if she had known what it was she had to fear.

  Torson and Ker kept a little apart from their captives. They talked at first with other sellers, then with those who wished to buy. Birle heard only occasional words. Ker kept silent, letting his quicker-tongued brother make their profits. The sun was warm, here where the wattle walls kept out any breeze, and dust rose into the air.

  Two men, who had walked around their circle twice before, stood in front of Birle. She looked up in apprehension but they were not interested in her. They conferred in low voices, as if she could not possibly understand what they said, as if she spoke a different language or could not speak, as if it
didn’t matter whether she understood or not any more than it matters if a dog understands. Both men were young and, for this place, plainly dressed, in short brown coats, without any decoration of color or thread. Both had smooth chins, but their hair was long, and tied back. The red-haired one seemed to be trying to convince the shorter, brown-haired man. “He’s worth four silvers. He looks as if he’s got some wit to him,” Red Hair said, “and for the work we need we can’t have someone too stupid to learn. There are tricks of joinery, and the accurate measuring of pieces of wood—an error is costly. Tailoring must also need such tricks. We can’t afford a witless slave.”

  “But four silvers—that’s all my savings. Wouldn’t we be wiser to keep looking out for apprentices, who at least bring payment with them?”

  “You know that apprentices go to the guildsmen. Listen, you’ll have him from first bell to second. I’ll feed him midday and have him the afternoon. Come on, what do you say? If his hands are as clever as they look—beneath the dirt—we’ll soon earn our coins back. Give me your hand on it, friend.”

  It had to be Orien. These were two craftsmen, that was clear. Orien would not be badly off with them—not like the mines, with his face branded; not like these pirates, with their oars and chains. She watched the two approach Torson, and wished them well.

  A man waited before her. Of middling age and middling height, he wore a deep blue coat, with red designs woven into its fabric. He looked at her as if he had always known that she would, one day, be brought here, as if—although she hadn’t known it—Birle had all her life been moving toward this one day. He had the eyes of a pig.

  He thrust his fleshy face toward her. Torson and Ker were occupied with the two craftsmen. His plump hand reached for her throat, but it was only to untie her cloak and let it fall at her feet. He stepped back then, to study her, up and down.

  As he examined her, he made an odd little sucking noise, with his mouth and cheeks. His head moved up and down, his cheeks puffed in and out; he stepped to one side, then to the other, still making sucking sounds. Then he stood in front of her again, hands behind his back again, sucking.